


And Long Past Midnight

by NextToSomething



Series: And Long Past Midnight [2]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Drama, F/M, Female Character of Color, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NextToSomething/pseuds/NextToSomething
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Syd Martin is structured, organized, and almost always working. When she spends an off-night in a way she usually wouldn’t, in the company of a man that she never dreamed she could, Syd finds that her actions hold consequences long past midnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a oneshot, previously titled Midnight, but the characters wouldn’t let me be. (You’ll want to read the oneshot first, now the prologue, as this picks up right where that left off.) This is definitely a new challenge for me, and I hope you enjoy where this labor of love goes. Any and all feedback is appreciated, encouraged, and veraciously desired.

As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of my small bedroom, I began to consider the very real possibility that I had dreamt the events of the previous night. Or that I had perhaps read it somewhere, and had superimposed myself into the part of the willing ingenue. Last night felt as if it had indeed fallen from the covers of a book, though, perhaps not one of my books, where the heroine is more likely to pluck out her own eyes than debase herself like that. No, rather one of the paperbacks my mother kept tucked between the mattress and the headboard to read as she fell asleep. The ones I would pick up off the floor in the morning and tuck back into place after she’d tossed it from the bed sometime during the night. The ones I sometimes flipped through to see if I could catch a breath of her perfume, only to place back into the box at the bottom of the closet, unsatisfied. 

She’d loved the books where the women were daring, sexual, free. She picked them up by the armload in the queue at the grocer’s, creating an erotic menagerie of sorts, teetering on the edges of side tables and along the treads of the stairs. She was the one I learned my creative balancing scheme of so many books on so few surfaces. And it was from these books that I learned, in the quiet dark of the night, all the things a man and a woman could get up to in bed. 

Perhaps it was this skewed education, before I knew my own reading preferences, that had me willing to spend last night as I had. I’m contemplating this as the walls of my bedroom slowly begin to illuminate with the first bleary touches of dawn.

The light of day has a funny way of stripping away all the details of the night and leaving you with a bullet list of highs and lows and little moments you don't quite know why you've remembered. I’d woken up well before my alarm, and I press my pillow over my face to block out the grey dawn light peeking through my not quite closed curtains. I clutch it harder to try to keep the list from scrolling through my head. I’m not successful, and my mind ticks through each point. 

I met Tom Hiddleston at an upscale hotel. 

He seduced me, however little seducing I required, using his voice and evocative language. Phrases like, "I mean to see more of you." and "Watch me discover you." find bullets of their own on my mental list. They sounded almost rehearsed, foppish in their poetics in the dull of the morning. I groan at my falling for them. 

We'd had sex. 

We'd had amazing, fully naked, passionate sex. This bullet repeats itself on the list a few more times. I find it takes at least three times thinking of it before I believe it. 

And then I nearly ran from the hotel room. His driver met me outside and he took me home. Well, after I'd requested we make a stop at a 24-hour chemist. I’d wanted to grab a sweet for Tilley. 

_Oh._ The night comes in strange flashes and I remember suddenly why I had sprinted out the door. We'd talked about Tilley. No, he'd _remembered_ Tilley. He'd remembered me. I'd told him... 

I fling the pillow across the room, and it hits one of my overstuffed bookshelves. A few of the more precarious top shelf books topple onto the pillow in a series of soft thumps. I'd told him about Tilley. 

I grab the Twisted off my side table, and walk down the hall to Tilley's bedroom. The thin rag rug does little to muffle the creaking hardwood floor, but I am guessing Tilley has been awake for at least an hour. When I knock on the door, my suspicions are confirmed as her voice immediately follows my knock. 

"Who's there?" 

I smile, and think for a moment. 

"Doris," I answer. 

Tilley is already laughing. I need a fresh batch of jokes. 

"Doris, who?" she asks through her laughter. 

"Doris closed, that's why I'm knocking!" 

I open the door and Tilley is sitting in the floor, long legs splayed on either side of large, organized piles of different Meccano parts. She has separated the metal plates from the angle girders and has slightly less large heaps of smaller parts, nuts and bolts and gears, meticulously divided. 

"What are you building today?" I ask. 

“I was going to use the pulley set you bought me and build The Eye,” she answers as she begins to separate and count nuts from bolts. 

I wish I had waited another pay period before splurging on the latest set, and then immediately feel the stab of guilt as I realise we wouldn’t be suddenly strapped for money if I hadn’t taken that taxi ride last night. 

“The Eye?” I ask. “Won’t that be a bit large?” She thinks for a moment, then reaches to touch a few of the pieces. 

“If I build it to roughly one to two-hundred scale, it’ll only be two and one quarter metres high.”

I laugh, though not at her. I’m amazed, once again, at her ease in maths. 

“Only two and one quarter?” I tease, but she doesn’t elaborate. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d found her room mostly consumed by some colossal contraption. 

“Do you want me to make you breakfast?” I ask. She won't look up, but then, I don't expect her to.

“Andy makes breakfast.”

“I know that,” I answer. “But I thought I could make you breakfast today. Something special? Dippy eggs?” 

She shakes her head, and starts lining up girder pieces. 

“Andy makes breakfast, and you’re acting weird.” 

I scratch the back of my neck, wondering if I should tell her why I was late coming in last night. She’ll ask, but it might be better if I told her first.  
But how can I tell her that I’d slept with her favorite supervillain? She can understand that they are different people, Tom and Loki, but then she'll want to meet him. Or she'll want to know when I will see him again, and I know that is simply not going to happen. Perhaps after I've gotten through the day, I can think of something better to say.

I feel guilty, and I’m not sure why.

I waggle the Twisted bar under her nose and I see her eyes widen. She makes to grab it and I snatch it away before she can. 

“What do you say, Tilley?”

She looks up at me, and for a moment I am looking at my mother’s lovely face. She looks so much like her, wide eyes and wider lips. The smooth, regal planes of my mother's face, softened by Tilley's momentary sweetness. Sometimes, when she's cross or being particularly difficult, her face twists into the harsher flint of my mother's. That's when Tilley looks most like her; when she's in a temper. 

"Thank you, Sydney, " Tilley says. 

"You're welcome, Matilda," I answer, playing one of our many games. She's looking down again, counting and sorting her tools for the day. I try to keep her with me for a moment longer. 

"Are you sure you don't want me to make you breakfast? I still have an hour before I have to leave."

"Andy. Makes. Breakfast," she states again, and I don't want to argue. There are much better things to waste my breath on, like explaining to Andrew why I'd come in over an hour later than decided looking, no matter how I had tried to hide it, thoroughly fucked. 

Just as the thought enters my head, my mobile begins noisily vibrating from the side table in my room. I look once more over Tilley, and leave her to her Meccano sets. I rush back down the hall and pick up the my phone, already knowing who is on the other line.

“Hi, Andrew. Look, thanks again for last night--”

A deep, deliberate voice I'm not expecting interrupts me.

“The name’s ‘Tom,’ darling.”

And suddenly, a bright red bullet point I’d unfortunately skipped over begins flashing from my mental list. 

I’d given the man my phone number. 

My heart is pounding and I feel a rush of heat to my face and neck. I'm making a noise, but it isn't words. 

"I thought you'd uttered it a sufficient amount of times last night to remember,” he says, in the same alluring tone.

The noise I’m emitting gets louder. I think it's something between a choke and a sputter. 

"Tom-- yes!" I say, sounding as if I've actually forgotten. 

The night comes crashing down around my ears. I'd been so stupid. I had talked to him, however briefly, about me, about my sister, and then left him with my number at the end of it all! Stupid, stupid! 

"Do you always crave a Twisted bar after leaving a man breathless?" He sounds amused by the whole stupid, stupid, horrid thing and I actually think I'm beginning to get light-headed. 

"What? No! I--" I try to reel all my thoughts into one place, so I might pick the better ones to say aloud rather than just sending whatever comes first out my mouth. "That wasn’t for me--" 

I stop before I drag Tilley back into this mess. I'm not sure what it is about him that loosens my usually tight lips. Perhaps it's how he seems to constantly surprise me. It occurs to me then that it is still before seven; I glance at the screen of my phone to be sure. 

"You call quite early, don't you?" If I had my wits about me, I would be thrilled at my cheek. But as it is, I feel I'm just blurting whatever comes to mind, rather than volleying back the same that was served to me. 

"Yes. Well." I can hear him softly breathing a laugh. "I had a feeling you were also a morning person." 

I'm definitely light-headed. I plunk down onto the foot of my bed, but my aim is a little off. My bum hits the bed, but off-center, and I slide to the floor. The sudden drop is probably what jostles the next words from me. 

"Did you want to have sex again?"

I slap my hand over my mouth. The world has never been more silent than in the moments after I said _that._ Of all the inane thoughts running through my head, the questions upon questions I have running rampant, that is the question I wish the most I hadn't asked. I feel like crying, I'm so mortified. It's obvious that my life with Tilley has broken down the art of subtlety as well as my employment of it.

Though, it is a fair point. Why on earth is he ringing me so early in the morning? My heart lurches at his apparent eagerness. 

_“I mean to see you again.”_

He’d said that, hadn’t he? He’d asked for my number! He’d seemed reluctant to let me go, even. Hadn’t he? Oh, hadn’t he? 

Tom's laughing and I can't be sure if it's at my bald inquiry or at the idea of sleeping with me again. I feel the prick of tears in the corners of my eyes, my embarrassment and distrust of the situation rising as bile in my throat, and a weak echo of the choked sound I made upon answering the phone whimpers across the line.  
Tom sobers quickly. 

"Ah, Syd--" He's silent for a moment and I take in a shaky breath. 

"Syd, I'm afraid I started this conversation in the wrong tone." He coughs. My heart is pounding painfully, unsure of the meaning of his words. 

"I--" He lets out a heavy breath into the phone. My heart rate falters. "I was calling to say that I can't see you again. I-- I thought it might be nicer if I called to tell you, rather than not calling at all." 

There is a beat of nothing as I take in his words.

I feel like I've been punched in the stomach, like the room is closing in on me. I know it's all an overreaction, I know feeling so physically ill is not a normal person's response to blatant rejection, but I am physically ill all the same. I've never handled embarrassment well, and this is the most embarrassed I've ever felt. I'd resolved within myself that I wouldn't see him again, for probably a hundred different, very sound, reasons. But the shock of such a man calling me, less than eight hours after I'd left him, had nonetheless thrilled me. I thought, I actually thought, he was calling so soon because he'd wanted to see me again. I'd thought I'd have the opportunity to rebuff him, tell him there was simply no room in my life for an affair with a film star. He'd actually only called so I didn't spend another moment entertaining the fantasy that he'd wanted me. I'd let myself be the stupid, feckless, swooning woman of the romance novels, and now I felt like dying under a rock. Of course he hadn't wanted me. Of course. 

"Oh..." I say, and my voice sounds like a wounded bird. I wish I had some sort of firey retort, or the strength to play it off as if I couldn't care less that the brilliant celebrity didn't want to see me again, but I don't. I feel like my skin has been scraped from my bones with a cheese grater. Did he have to call to tell me he wasn't interested? Did he have to make me hear him say it? 

"Oh, Syd." He says, as if he's upset. _Stop saying my name,_ I think. _Stop being so familiar with me when it is so painfully obvious how foreign you actually are._

"Last night was..." The unspoken half of the sentence grinds me further into dust. _A mistake._ I pray he doesn't give this a name, too. I won't be able to stomach this as well. 

"No, no, that’s fine!" I interject, my voice frantic. I can't hear any more; I will vomit if he goes on. "I was just having a laugh." I try sounding flippant, but I fear I just sound daft. I try laughing into the phone, but it sounds like crying, so I clamp my lips shut. I don't try anything else. 

His sigh carries over the phone and I am desperate to end this tortuous conversation. 

"I was wondering," he continues, after a moment. His voice sounds strained, and I think there has never been a more uncomfortable conversation had. "I was wondering if I could have your address." 

I quake with the implications. So he can tell me to my face that sleeping with me was a horrible idea? 

"I wanted to send you your book of sonnets. I didn't want to hold it ransom from you."

There. 

That’s the most humiliating moment of my 28 years. The damn sonnet book. The intoxicatingly romantic gesture of keeping a memento of our encounter, shredded by those words. I clutch the phone so hard I hear the slight give and crack of the plastic cover. I honestly can’t take another moment of this. My chest actually hurts.

"God, Tom, just keep it.” My voice is suddenly full, though I sound completely beaten. “Or throw it out. Please, please don't send it back to me." I click off then, quickly, not wanting to hear his response.

I'm glad I'm already on the floor, because I don't know that I could stand under the overbearing shame of the moment. I've never felt smaller. I glance weakly at my phone, and see I've very little time to get ready before going to work. If it were any other day, I'd call in sick. Because I do feel so terribly sick. But, unfortunately, today is the first day of my new situation, and nursing my shame isn’t really an option. 

I push up off of the floor, shaky and hollow. I glance at the small mirror on the wall and the sight of my pathetic reflection makes me want to roll my eyes. Where Tilley’s face is wide and generous, mine is narrow and angular. I pull my wild hair back into a pony and wipe at the slight spill of tears under my reddened eyes. Lillian will chastise me for not wearing my hair in a bun, but she's never been able to understand that my kinky hair won't hold to the severe standards her own glossy-smooth tresses set. I won't relax it either, no matter how she hints that I should. I did enough of that when I was younger. 

I try to let myself be taken in by the comfort of my usual routine and pull on my uniform. A new situation calls for a new set, though my last couple of sets are hardly old. I notice with sudden detached horror that the skirt of it is a couple inches too short, rising so slightly above my knees. It's the curse of being six feet tall, and consisting mostly of legs, but this will prove further upset for Lillian. The turmoil of the morning hasn't left me enough time to fix the hem, and has stripped me of the wherewithal to give a shit. I try to weigh what will upset Lillian the least, my wearing an old suit or wearing the new, but ill-fitted, one. I decide that both will absolutely ruin her day, so I take the option that saves me from having to change again. I'm going to be late as it is. 

I'm waiting for the toaster to pop up my breakfast when the front door opens. 

"Hallo, stranger!" Andrew pipes from behind me. 

I bounce on my toes waiting for my toast. I don’t want to face him, not yet.

“What were you up to last night? You hardly said a word when you came in.” His voice brings an odd comfort to me, and I feel the precursory throat-ache of tears threaten again. 

My dry toast pops up, and I snatch it before he can say anything else.

“I’m sorry, Andrew, I’ve really got to run. I’m going to be late.” When I turn, I see he’s propped his hip up over the counter, arms crossed as a bemused smile plays on his freckled face. He’s tall, too. Whenever we all go out for dinner, Andrew, Tilley and I, he likes to reserve the table under, “The Wall of Tall.” He thinks it’s funny to see the host shift uncomfortably at the lame joke as we all stand there, shoulder to shoulder. He’s even taller than--

My thoughts stop short. A fast-action replay of meeting a film star at a hotel and adding myself to the list of women mad enough to fuck him after eighteen words or less, then being called in the morning by said film star so he may obliterate any hope of my thinking it might mean more pulsates in my brain. 

Andrew’s looking at me like I owe him an explanation, and, really, I do.

“I’ll tell you about it tonight, Andrew. I promise!” I interject when his look turns doubtful. “I just have to go now!”

I must look a fright, because he raises his eyebrows, giving me a pass, and I rush out the door to make my way to the tube station.

\------

“You might have combed your hair,” Lillian chides as she turns up the road to the row of posh, yet somewhat conservative, houses. I’m trying to tune her out, as I’m mentally determining my commute. Once again, I’m cross at Lillian’s insistence that all business be conducted at the home offices. If she’d allowed me to sign the fresh batch of non-disclosure statements here at the client’s house rather than hauling me all the way to Brixton, I might have saved myself and hour and a half. An hour and a half was plenty of time to go over every second of the previous night and morning, growing sicker still with humiliation. Once I arrived, she rushed me through the process, not really even letting me look at the hefty legal documents before pressing the pen into my hand.

It is a routine I have gotten used to, after the initial hiring process at the agency and over the past five years working for Mr Benson. I did like to look the things over, however, before signing over my right to disclose a single thing about my employer or employment. It was so thrilling when I began as a part of a crew, convinced I would be cleaning the houses of the ridiculously famous. But after two years of keeping the second and third homes of various boring, albeit powerful, corporate leaders and lesser politicians tidy, I had lost the excited spark of working for someone truly worth keeping the secret. As I grew older, I learned to be grateful for the small lives lead by those with so much money. It made my job infinitely less stressful, and rendered the non-disclosure statements nearly pointless. I wouldn’t know what to spill about these wealthy creatures, anyway.

Lillian’s exasperated sigh draws me out of mentally mapping my morning commute. (It would be the bus, for sure, with a stop only just over the road.) There is a singular parking space reserved for the house I suppose is to be my new cleaning project, and it is already occupied by a gleaming, though not quite latest model, Jaguar. She drives further down the lane and parks in front of a café at the crossroad. She tuts when we climb from the car.

“You look like a right tart, your skirt that short.”

Before I can stop myself, I tug self-consciously at the hem. It isn’t short, as it reaches only just above my kneecaps, but it is shorter than what Lillian considers regulation. The outfit couldn’t be sexy if it tried, drab grey with the completely useless, and heinously stereotypical, attached apron. Plenty of the girls had begged with her to change the uniform to something more modern and vaguely flattering, but she had thus-far remained unmoved.

“It was the one issued to me. I didn’t think you would want me wearing my worn suits from when I was at Mr Benson’s.” She huffs again, but remains silent. She walks up the steps to the large but understated house at the end of the row and firmly presses the doorbell. Without looking at me, she says, “You will, of course, use your issued key and come in through the back entry from here onward.” 

As if I haven’t been working in cleaning services for seven years. I remain silent, as is my usual defense. I take in the plain brick face of the house. It’s pleasant, and only having worked in the area lets me in on its value. It’ll have a full garden in the back, and being the end house of the row would add to its value, along with being so far set back from the street. The house is unassuming, but I have no doubt it's stunning inside.

There is the loud sound of someone galloping down wooden steps, and whomever is on the other side of the leaded glass front door only takes a moment to turn the doorknob enough to release the mechanism before dashing back up the stairs. The door swings a few centimetres open and Lillian clucks her tongue. I like the client already; anyone whom Lillian disproves of is surely my sort of person.

She pushes the door open and we walk into the dazzlingly bright foyer. 

A muffled, “Be right down!” carries from upstairs as I take in the new space.

The house is lovely, lovelier than I had even anticipated. The foyer is open and small, letting into the supremely large vaulted reception room, the back wall of the house consumed by large windows. The walls are all white, bouncing the unusually bright London day off their faces. I walk further in, still taken by the airy quality of the house, adoring the warmth of the natural light. After a moment, however, I settle into my head space, and begin to calculate a cleaning regimen. The windows, of course, will be the worst, followed by the gleaming hardwood floors. The white won’t do me any favors; I’ll have to dust every day I’m here. I take in the furnishings, looking for possible trouble spots of breakable keepsakes or difficult to reach nooks. I can hear the client jogging back down the stairs.

Several things occur all at once, though almost in slow motion as I take in the details. I notice on the coffee table a familiar looking book, small and worn. Less familiar, but recognisable all the same, is the white card laying beside it, my own phone number scribbled across the back. As the implications of this settle in, a voice that hadn’t seemed familiar when it had shouted down moments before is saying with much more clarity, “So sorry to keep you waiting, I had only just received a call--” 

And I’m turning around only to meet the startled eyes of a man I had hoped to never see again.

I was wrong. _This_ is the most embarrassing moment of my life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the sweet words and feedback for the first chapter! I do want to warn you that I'm not always so speedy with my updates, as I'm a graduate student first, fic writer second. However, this chapter was just dying to be written. As always, any and all feedback is welcome and encouraged. I hope you enjoy!

I’d had a half moment to come to grips with what was going to happen when I turned around, and who I would see when I did. The wild shock of his eyes as he rounds the stairs lets me know he had no idea of who he’d find at the bottom of them. He acts on this surprise. 

“Syd!” Tom says, before I can think to stop him, and probably before he can think it a bad idea. I pinch my lips and vigorously shake my head from behind Lillian’s turned back, silently pleading with him with my eyes. _Please, please don’t lose me my job on top of it all. Oh, please!_

He seems to come to then, only a bit, and blurts, “--ney! Sydney!” His voice stutters in his throat and he shakes his head, probably trying to tame the bewildered look on his face. How he thinks shouting my full name helps, I can't know. 

“M-Martin!” he says, and now I'm the one surprised. 

This seems to pull him together, thinking he’s saved himself, and he falls into the cool, though still somewhat flustered, mask of the professional actor. He comes to me, hand outstretched. What on earth?

“Sydney _Martin_ , that’s what the voicemail said, isn’t it?” He says my name deliberately, almost sharply, connecting dots that are still flying loose about my head. My confusion must be plain on my face, because he looks at me hard and elaborates. "From the agency." 

He’s still reaching to shake my hand, and I offer it to him limply. He gives it a firm squeeze, and adds his other hand to the hold, trapping it. Trapping me. He looks to Lillian.

“And you must be Lillian,” he says, his voice warming. He turns his head further to flash her with a dazzling smile. He’s still clutching my hand between his.

Lillian sniffs, and her eyes drift to Tom’s hands. I pinch the skin of his wrist. He releases me to take her hand, though her look is still skeptical. 

"Lillian Howard, if we're doing full names, here." Her voice is cool, and she's trying to piece together what she's seeing. "Do you know each other?" 

He's dropped her hand, and turns back to me. He breathes a nervous laugh. 

"Er... " He stops, his lips parted, twitching between an anxious smile and nothing at all. 

I straighten my spine, look him directly in the eye, and say the most honest thing I've said all morning. 

"No, ma'am. Not at all." 

The words sound large and cold in the nearly infinite space of the great room. He straightens too, tipping his chin up in a way has me thinking of the bedroom at the hotel, and holds his hand out again to me, in a second, more terse, greeting. 

"I'm Tom. Hiddleston." That powerful presence that had me watching him undress me in a mirror is pouring from him, and I find it hard to keep at my plastered on professionalism. 

"I think I've seen your movies, Mr Hiddleston," I say as I take his hand again. My words make me sound simple, but it’s just as well. He doesn’t wrap my hand up in both of his, in that over-friendly vice. He does squeeze a bit too hard, however. 

"Sir," I add. 

His eyes tighten. 

"Just 'Tom' will do." It's meant to be kind, and he turns a small smile, but I hear it for what it is: a reach for a higher foothold. 

I don't let him tread on me. 

"I wouldn't dream of it, _sir_." I turn a small smile of my own.

My momentary feeling of superiority and control is dashed by Lillian’s next words.

“Sydney is one of our best girls, Mr Hiddleston. She’ll do good work for you.”

I take my hand out of his at that, and the shame of the morning blooms in a violent burst in my chest. The bigger reality of the situation, that had thus far been eclipsed by my utter shock at seeing him run down the stairs, slams hard into my stomach. 

I’m here to clean his house. I’m here to keep his linens fresh and his floors swept and prepare his afternoon tea, if he wants. Whatever he wants. This is so much worse than bumping into a past lover at the market while shopping for cold medicine. 

I’m the help.

Tom seems to realise this as well, as his eyes widen a bit with his earlier dismay.

“Right,” he says, his hand going to rub the back of his neck. 

“Is there a problem, Mr Hiddleston?” Lillian asks. She’s distrustful of this situation, and rightfully so. Neither of us are doing a very good job of acting like we haven’t been naked together within the last twelve hours. But in my line of work, it doesn’t matter how we act. All it takes is a word. One word from the client, and I’m out of a job. There’s protection for me to be sure, legally, but I’d be jobless all the same. It’s what I’d signed on for, taking a job at a cleaning agency for the wealthy famous and famously wealthy. 

It hadn’t proved a problem before now.

I’m hoping he’ll look at me again, so I can try to steer him from saying what I’m afraid he’ll say. He doesn’t, and I steel myself for the worst. 

“No problem, Lillian. Ms Howard. I’m only flustered from my earlier call. I forgot you both were coming.” His voice is winning, and his smile is charming. Lillian is cold as ice on her best days, so it’s really a battle for nothing. Her eyes narrow, but she seems convinced enough.

“Very good, sir. We’ve taken care of the NDSs before we came, and, as I said, Sydney is very good. ” She won’t say a kind word to me for the rest of my days, and never has before, but in front of the clients, her girls are her shining jewels. 

She isn’t lying, though. I’m young yet to be a housekeeper, and this is my second situation as such. But I’ve come from a long practice of dedication and work ethic. 

“She’ll be here every other day, unless you require differently. Only contact me and we will make the proper arrangements.” She straightens her immaculate cardigan.

“You won’t see much of me, of course,” she continues. “It’s my policy to bring the girls in their first day, make sure everything is in order.”

“Of course,” Tom returns. 

Lillian eyes me once more, her face tighter than her usual, and I try to look as innocent as possible. I know I’m failing.

“If that’s all then,” she says, her voice leading, giving him one more chance to tell the truth. His face splits into that radiant smile once more, and he claps his hands together. I’m thinking he’s gone too far the other direction.

“No, no! I’m sure we’ll get on just fine.” He throws me a glance, and very suddenly I don’t want Lillian to go. I realise that in a moment we’ll be alone and I’m terrified at what he will say. 

“Very good, sir,” she says again. “I’ll let myself out.” 

Tom’s eyes and smile follow her to the door, and he watches her blurred silhouette become more faint through the wavy glass of the front door. Then he whirls on me.

“What were you thinking, coming here?” he says, and I feel as if he’s struck me. 

“Excuse me?” I say, my voice knife-sharp. 

The happy light has gone from his eyes, and he’s looking at me with that smoky glare again. I can’t tell if it’s anger, because it looks exactly the same as when he wants to devour me. It’s the look from across the crowd. It’s the look from through the mirror. 

“Didn’t you know?” he demands. 

I look at him incredulously, and wildly shake my head.

“No, of course not! Why would I willingly walk into the house of a man who…” My voice trails off, dulling. I can’t say it out loud, not after the call this morning. 

“She said you signed the papers! Did you just miss my name at the top?” His voice has risen, and I’m getting angrier by the second. The implications of his words are infuriating. 

“Do you think I’m stupid? I--” I’m sputtering at this point, too incensed to see straight, much less form a proper sentence. “I didn’t look at them!” I say, before I can stop myself. I close my eyes, not really pleading my case for intelligence. 

“I know that sounds stupid.” My voice is quieter, backtracking. It’s easier to talk with my eyes closed, though. I don’t have to see the roiling look of his own. “I was late! I was running late! I--” I’m muttering. _Of all the days to blindly sign something._ I pull at my apron, then stop, not wanting to draw any more attention to this ridiculous uniform, to my role in all this. I open my eyes, and shoot him an accusing look.

“I had quite the upsetting phone call this morning.” This is all so ridiculous. I don’t know this man! It feels completely unreal that I should be arguing so intensely with him, defending myself this heartily. I turn away, wishing I could run the other direction. “Lillian practically signed my name for me, she rushed me so much. And it’s such routine at this point, I--”

I stop my rambling when something occurs to me.

“What about you?” I ask, my voice shaking. “All that ‘Sydney Martin’ business-- you knew I was coming!”

He shakes his head at that, not looking at me. 

“How could I know ‘Sydney Martin’ meant you?” He turns back, and the shadowed look on his face has darkened further. I swallow against the tender lump in my throat, struggling to look at him. He takes steps towards me, and his voice pitches deadly low. “I didn’t exactly catch your last name.”

I don’t know if he means to hurt me with this, but it hurts all the same. It whips across my face in a ringing slap. My voice is quiet when I respond, and I don’t want him to know how deep his words cut.

“Oh, piss off. You’re the gentleman who didn’t ask for it.”

He smiles a bit at this, and I almost growl in frustration. I can’t keep up with him. What is all this to him?

“Not quite so demure in the daylight,” he says, voice still low, and suddenly I’m torn between burning anger and a burn of a totally different sort. I hate that.

“Liked that better, did you? Silent Syd?” I can’t be sure where the gall to say these things comes from. Has one reckless night changed me so much? “I can go back to that. I’m the hired help; I’m bred for it.”

“No,” he says, and he’s smiling again. “I quite like this.” 

He leans as if to kiss me, and I twirl out from beneath him. 

“Jog on! I’ve read that book, sir, and that move only works in fiction!” His eyes narrow, but he stays still.

“What is all this, anyway?” I ask, attempting to calm the frantic tone of my voice. “Weren’t you the one calling me at the crack of dawn to make sure I knew as soon as possible that you didn’t want to see me again?”

His eyebrows quirk as if what I’ve said has actually hurt him. His voice is quieter still.

“I said that I couldn’t see you again, Sydney. Not that I didn’t want to.” 

I snort at his response, at his invoking his bedroom name for me. “Oh, you poor, wounded soul.”

“Sydney,” he warns.

“No, no! I had no idea this was so hard for you!” My voice snaps with the sarcasm I can’t quite reel in. “By all means, sir, kiss me!”

He does. I hadn’t expected him to, and he does. His large hands settle in anchor points I’m helpless to fight, pressing me into him at the small of my back and the base of my skull. His mouth is hot against me and he kisses me as thoroughly as he did last night. It coils around the cold knots that had formed in my throat and stomach and I’m lost in the searing pressure. My hands waver in the empty space around us, before fisting in the taut material of his shirt, requiring yet another anchor. I kiss him back, fueled by my anger at him, and my anger at myself. 

It’s exquisite.

I break away from him, or he from me. I can’t really tell. We draw away from each other, and I can’t determine who is more surprised by the kiss. 

“Only in fiction, eh?” he mutters, eyes on my lips. I unclench my hands from his shirt. 

The house is larger still in the stretching silence, and I feel more conflicted than when I was in the backseat of last night's taxi. 

“Tea,” I say, finally, breathlessly. I back away from him, shaking. “I’ll put the kettle on.” 

“You don’t have to--” he begins, but stops when I throw a look at him.

“I think tea is about the only thing that could improve this situation. Or at least, the only thing respectable to drink this hour of the morning.” I stiffly walk further into the reception room, still cowed by its vaulted ceilings, and see the warm, open kitchen to my left.

“At least let me show you--” He’s followed after me, his stride as long as mine, matching my pace easily. I whirl on him.

“Please, _sir_ ,” I practically spit the words from my mouth. “It’s my job. I think I can find my way round the cupboards.” That stops him. I let my anger fuel me for one more moment, and bob a snide curtsy, tucking my hand under my chin in a mean mockery of daintiness. He spears his hand through his hair and turns liquid-smooth on his heel, away from me, eyes shooting to the high ceiling. I hope he’s embarrassed; I feel like I’m burning. 

The kitchen is as lovely as the rest of what I’ve seen of the house. The cupboards are a rough, yellowish amber wood with dark, streaking grain and knots. It looks almost as if they were taken directly from beneath the woodman’s axe and fixed upon the wall. I see an electric kettle on the countertop, already filled with water. I dump it, regardless, not wanting to spoil the brew with possibly stale water. After refilling it with crisp, cold water from the tap, I set it to boil and take another look around the kitchen. Hanging copper pots and ceramic dishes create what almost looks like an art installment on the far wall, nestled between large windows with inset doors that let out to the garden. I wonder then if the man can actually cook, with all the expensive trappings filling the space. I snort, supposing they probably came with the house.

I open cupboards, ignoring the fussy tea set displayed on the counter and hoping to find what I’m looking for. Pushed back on the top shelf of the final cupboard I open is a squat Brown Betty, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I wipe it down quickly, removing the fine layer of dust that has collected on its surface. 

The water is boiling, and I find the happy routine of tea is calming my nerves. I feel much more at peace as I swirl the steaming water in the pot, rocking it in my palms before pouring the liquid into the sink. Needing bone-deep comfort, my hand passes over the tea bags and reaches instead for the canister. I spoon the loose tea into the pot, and the faint aroma of it sends a thrill through me. I splash the boiling water over it, sending the leaves to dance, and the steam carries the heady scent in a wet billow to me, earthy like hay dampened by the morning rain. I clank the lid onto the top of the pot once I’ve filled it, cutting short my waxing poetic over a good brew. The process has almost completely mollified me, however, and after wrapping the pot in a hand-towel, I feel as though I might be able to face Tom again. 

I carry the pot into the reception room. Tom is staring out the window to the back lawn, his hands shoved into his rear pockets. The calm of tea-making is leaching from me quickly, but I know the calm of tea-drinking is fast coming, and this sustains me. 

“How do you take it?” I ask as I set the pot on the low table. 

“Milk. In first,” he says. He’s looking down, now, but hasn’t turned into the room yet. 

“Is there another time to put it in?” I say, and I feel suddenly like I’m flirting with him. He smiles tightly, so I quickly add, “That’s what my mum always said.” I feel like the familiarity of the sentiment only worsens the moment. I'll be talking about my grandmother's childhood, next. 

I rush back to the kitchen to collect a tray of everything else, forgoing the porcelain cups and saucers in favor of heavy earthen mugs. I bring the tray back to the table, and chew my lip as I move aside the sonnet book to make room. I contemplate hiding it, tucking it behind my back, but he's turned around and I can't do it without his seeing. His eyebrows lift at the mismatched assortment of crockery on the tray as he makes his way to the table and I feel my face heat at the realisation. I’m serving tea as if we’re mates, lovers. Not as if he’s my employer. 

He’s my employer. 

I look down as he takes a seat on the settee, and make to pour milk into the mugs.

“Let me pour,” he says, softly. 

“No, please,” I say. “It’s my--”

“--Job, yeah, you said,” he finishes, and he seems almost deflated as he sinks back into the hard-backed settee, hands scrubbing his face. 

I pour out, cringing again at my not using the proper tea set. I’m not quite living up to the praise of Lillian, but then, I’d never had to work under the breathless rush of just being thoroughly kissed.

I hand him his mug, and chance a look up at him. He’s looking hard at me, his expressive brow pleated in some emotion I’m too worn out to guess. I take up my own mug, and just breathe the damp scent of the tea for a moment longer. Tom takes a sip, and groans.

“Fucking Christ. This is perfect.” He takes another sip, and I think he might burn his tongue if he doesn’t pace himself. “Really, really perfect.”

I don’t say anything, trying to fall into the role of housekeeper. It’s difficult, sitting on the chair opposite him. I'd ordinarily take my tea in the kitchen, alone, leaving him to pour out on his own. 

“Where’d you find this?” He motions to the Brown Betty, not setting down his mug. He keeps it close to his face, probably, like me, enjoying the comfort only the smell of tea can bring. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, hoping it didn’t belong to his dead mother or brother and the sight of it haunts him or something. “I wanted to make a really good pot of tea. I-- well, I hope that’s all right.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” he says, taking another hearty pull of tea, before finally setting down his cup. “It’s left over from my days at Cambridge. I didn’t know I still had it.”

I reach to top off his cup, and he stops me. I let him pour, and remember what comes next.

“This is the part where I usually ask your preferences on things,” I venture. “Detergent scents and tea times and such. If I’m to prepare any meals, menus and that. I’ve--” I set down my mug, suddenly driven by purpose. “I’ve got a notepad in my purse, hold on.”

He reaches out a hand and grabs my wrist, stopping me. 

“Syd.”

I sit back down.

“You’re right. I’ll--” I want to reach for my tea again, but I leave it, focusing my stare on my hands clenched in my lap. “I’ll talk to Lillian about putting me in a new position. I can work as a part of a crew again, until something opens up. I’ll say--” What will I say? How can I bow out without risking my job? “I’ll say it’s too hard with Tilley, with her love of your films.”

What rubbish.

“Or something. I’ll think of something.”

He’s not looking at me, just swirling his milk-in-first tea around the mug. 

“I’ll go today. Now, even."

My eyes fall on the book of sonnets lying next to the cobbled together tea service. I reach for it, and his hand covers mine. 

"I think I will keep this, after all," he says. "You've made some fair notes in it. I'd like to read them." 

I pull my hand away, surprised by him once again. 

"Right. Okay, right." I stand, and notice Tom's eyes are on my legs. The damn short skirt has ridden up with my sitting. I tug it into place. "I'd better go. Catch the bus." 

He stands. "I'll drive you." 

"Please, no. I don't know how I'm going to plead my case in the first place." I need to stop talking. I need to get out of this bloody house. "You dropping me at the offices won't help."

I grab my purse from where I dropped it in the kitchen, and nearly run back to the foyer. Tom is still sitting on the settee, his fingers laced before him, his forearms resting on his thighs. He's looking at the floor, and I'm glad for it. His eyes keep saying things I can’t decipher, and I'm sick with trying to understand them. I almost make it through the door when he speaks up. 

"What does that mean? 'You'll work as part of a crew?'" He hasn't looked up, his eyes fixed on his joined hands. 

I don't come back into the house, but stand wavering in the threshold of the door. 

"I'm a housekeeper. But when I first started, I began as a part of a staff. Worked various places, bounced around a bit." I jiggle the doorknob nervously. "I'll work it again until a position opens up." 

"Is the pay any different?" he asks, and I clutch the doorknob tightly. _Less than half._

"Goodbye, Tom," is all I say, and I close the door behind me. I’ve only made it four feet from the door before lighting the cigarette.

\-----

The meandering bus ride to the offices in Brixton gives me plenty of time to come up with absolutely nothing to say to Lillian. There is no good excuse for my wanting to shift situations. Even the lame excuse of not wanting to upset or agitate Tilley with my working for her favourite film actor is negated by the NDS. I’m not to talk about my employer, even to my sister. I do, we all do, and we run the risk of losing our jobs by confiding in our loved ones. For the most part, the risk is low. I’ve only known one girl to be let go because her destitute brother sold her out to a gossip paper. All the same, Lillian will only reiterate that I’m not to tell Tilley in the first place. 

I’ve got nothing.

When I finally arrive at the offices, I’ve completely lost my nerve. I look at the grey-ish white exterior of the building and realise that I lack the acting skills to stand in front of Lillian and fake my way to a change. She’ll see right through whatever I wind up saying, and my short skirt and gradually expanding hair will only count in favour of my termination. I jog a bit down the pavement, and pull out my mobile. I’d rather be fired over the phone, anyway.

She answers on the first ring.

“If this is about Mr Hiddleston, he’s already phoned me,” she says, without warning or introduction.

My racing heart stutters to an uncomfortable and, unfortunately, temporary stop. 

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

Damn him. Damn his stubbornness and his need to control things and his thinking he could have done this better. Damn all of it. Damn him for kissing me and for keeping my favourite bloody book and for stripping me of the only thing I’ve been proud of in months. I’m not even a non-smoker, anymore!

Damn him for thinking he knows what’s what. He has no fucking idea. 

“Right,” I say, and wait for the words that already have me mentally scrutinising my bank accounts. 

“He wanted to apologise again for his startling you this morning,” she says, and it sounds like it pains her to do so. I’m sure having a client ask to apologise to one of us vexes her to no end. It was kind of him, of course, to apologise before sending me to the unemployment queue. The man was nothing if not irritatingly, blindly, revoltingly kind. When he wants to be.

“And,” her voice is hard and I can tell she wishes I was in front of her so she can watch my face fall as she says it. I squeeze my eyes shut. “He’s insisted that you stay on, whatever that means. Very nearly demanded it. I don’t know why he--”

She’s talking, she’s saying more things, probably accusing me of any number of sins, of upsetting the precious client, but I’ve stopped listening. The meaning behind her words sits as a brick in the pit of my stomach.

One word. In my line of work, all it takes is one word.

I’m Tom Hiddleston’s housekeeper, and I will be until he changes his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your feedback. This chapter was a bit more difficult to get out; sorry about the slight delay. I'm always open to hearing your thoughts, and again, thanks for reading!

Lillian spends another ten minutes berating me for guilting Tom into thinking he owed me an apology, for walking out of my first day early, for inconveniencing her, and, as they seemed to call out to her even through the phone, for my hair and skirt's misbehavior. I'm not particularly attentive, as I am trying to comprehend the fact that I am not unemployed. Quite the opposite, it would seem. I am rather gainfully employed by one of England’s most treasured actors.

I plunk down on the curb, blindly rolling another cigarette. I’ll start worrying over quitting again tomorrow. I haven’t even had a chance to fully grasp that less than twelve hours ago, I was beneath the treasured actor in a hotel bed, and now I have to deal with the fact that I work for him. So many different thoughts are shuffling through my head and not a one is working towards settling my frenzied nerves.

I light the fag, and pull a lungful of smoke into my mouth. I inhale, and the months of abstinence from the habit have the skin beneath my eyeballs tingling with my light-headedness. I exhale, and the fog of my thoughts seems to blow out of me with the smoke.

I’m angry. I’m mostly angry at me, for doing quite possibly the most cliched thing a girl could do when approached outside a velvet-rope enclosed crowd. I’m not even a proper fan of his, not really, not like Tilley; I don’t think I appreciated the experience for what it was. Worse than a fanatic hoping to spend a night with an object of her adoration, I had simply been taken in by the possessive look in his eye. I wonder if I might still have gone to him if he'd been some bloke at a pub. The rush of heat to my face answers the thought for me. Without question, I would have.

It was almost as if his celebrity occurred to me later, on the car-ride home, rather than when his publicist-come-pimp handed me a card for the hotel. I angrily flick ash onto this thought. How many other girls have been approached the same way? He lives in London, apparently, so why the hotel? I suppose he just has a standing reservation for his many midnight rendezvous. 

I’m angrier. If this is something he does so often, if he’s so adept as to have a hotel room ready and waiting, then why did he act the way he did after? Wanting my phone number. Asking after Tilley. 

This thought stokes the flame even higher. He said he looked forward to meeting Tilley again. It is one thing to toy with me, to lie in order to keep at this gentlemanly facade of actually wanting to pursue something beyond the thrill of a singular encounter. But to speak so freely of my sister-- that is something that I can’t so easily understand. Why go through so much if he intended on ringing me the next morning to call the whole thing off?

In a show of great dexterity, I begin rolling my third cigarette of the day with the second still clamped between my fingers. I light it by pressing the still-lit ember of its predecessor to the end, pulling puff after puff of smoke to me. I probably look a wreck, sitting on the pavement in my too-short uniform, hair tugged from its elastic and flying about my head, chain-smoking. 

I can’t be made to care.

I don’t think too hard on the words of the early morning phone call. That humiliation is still too close, and the wounds still too tender. I’m still reeling at his initial flirtatious manner, and my eager receptiveness of it. And then his aboutface, his total dismissal of the night, down to wanting to send back my book. The man was truly cruel. I would have much preferred a sated indifference after we’d finished, rather than supposed, wishy-washy interest. 

My thoughts are far from settled, but I decide that I can’t pick through them sitting on the ground any longer. I trudge back to the bus stop, god I’m so tired of riding the bus, and slowly make my way back towards Islington. I’ll have to talk to Jules about my schedule, and this will hopefully keep me from returning to the flat too early. I’m not quite prepared for what I’m going to say. 

The awning of the café really needs to be replaced. I think this every time I come into work, and every time I leave it unsaid because I think it adds to the charm of the place. Cozy and clean, Julian’s is a neighbourhood favourite, and a second home to me. If falling back on my nasty smoking habit won’t calm me, then being behind the counter at Julian’s will.

As soon as I’m through the door, my shoulders loosen. I duck behind the counter and trot back to the kitchen where I find Jules neck deep in a heated conversation with our pastry chef, Mary. They always tend to bump heads, but that probably has more to do with the fact that they used to be married than anything else. 

“Ah, Jules?” I ask, trying to top the rising volume of their discussion.

He turns toward me, and the brightening of his face tells me I’ve made the right decision in coming in. 

“Everything all right, love?” he asks immediately, dropping the tiff instantly and coming over to me. “You look a wreck.”

“Oh, fine,” I lie, and he has me at it before I can even continue.

“That’s a fucking lie and I know it. How about a cuppa?” he says, already walking away from me to grab the kitchen service.

“Ah, no,” I say. “No more tea.” 

He turns in shock at this, and jabs a finger toward the back door. “Outside, now. If you’re off tea, then you’re smoking again, and I could use a fucking fag.” 

I march outside, thinking there isn’t much use in arguing. Mary gives me a wearied look as I pass and Jules nearly slams the door closed behind us. 

“Go on, then,” he says, motioning to my purse. I sigh and bring out my cigarette pouch, thinking if I keep this up, I’ll be back to rolling my week’s supply on my off day. The thought depresses me. I roll myself one, but throw the pouch to Jules for him to help himself. He raises his eyebrows at this, but rolls his own anyway. 

“So what the fuck’s your fucking problem?” he says as once he finishes, taking a button-straining pull on the cigarette only the oldest of smokers can manage. His love of language most foul, even when the situation doesn’t demand it, is almost as comforting as the smoke. I smile briefly into the familiarity of it.

“Are you fucking pissed?” he asks at my grin, and I laugh weakly. I fall heavily against the brick wall, bonking my head softly against it, the grit of the bricks scratching through my uniform.

“No, stone cold sober,” I say after a time.

“Then why aren’t you at work, love? And why are you smoking?” I glance over to him, and his worry is plain on his face. The cigarette is dangling from his lips, and amazingly already mostly spent. 

“I’ve just had the longest day, is all,” I answer, deflecting. He puts out the fag and flicks the butt at the ground at my feet.

“It’s a quarter of ten, Syd,” is his droll response, and I groan at the realisation. “What’s with you?”

I haven’t powered through my cigarette quite so quickly as him, and take a draw, stalling. 

“Syd,” he says, and paws through my pouch for another paper.

“New client,” I say, and close my eyes, wanting to escape any and all thoughts of said new client.

“Oh,” he says, drawing the sentiment out long and multi-tonal. “Anyone good?” 

I laugh, and open my eyes to toss him a look.

“You know I can’t say.” Though Jules is close as family to me, I don’t trust his loose tongue around our customers; never have. Even uninteresting Mr Benson was always “Mr B” around Jules. He always got a kick out of trying to guess who he was, finally settling on James Bond. He had the most fun with that one.

“I’ll just ask my sister, then,” he clips, striking a match for his second smoke.

I genuinely laugh at this one, the idea completely absurd.

“Bullshit! Lillian wouldn’t tell you a thing, and you know that better than I do!” 

Jules always likes to say that he and his twin sister, my boss Lillian, were like the opposite sides of the coin. I like to think they are opposite sides of two different coins, of two different currencies, rattling around in two different change purses, on two separate continents, for the stretching maw between their personalities. Where Lillian is wound tight, proper and strict as a cartoon school marm, Jules is laughing, vulgar, and warm. Lillian is petite and waif thin, her salt-and-pepper hair always back in a severe knot and Jules is as tall as me, and rounded about the chin and belly. He’s known me almost as long as Lillian and loves Tilley and me fiercely. Lillian still only refers to Tilley as “my situation.” 

The idea of Lillian breaching the confidentiality of an NDS to tell her black sheep brother the name of my employer is completely ridiculous.

“Always a sucker for the rules, you are,” Jules chides, and I sober a bit. I was, until last night. Until this morning, when I’d left Tom’s house to escape the thickness of the air, the shadow of his eyes. I’ve never let an uncomfortable situation rule me before, and I am ashamed that I have let this one be the first. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never encountered this level of discomfort before, because I am the best at what I do. No amount of thick air should change that. 

“Won’t you tell me what’s got you so fucking worked?” Jules asks at my silence.

In my moment of thought, I’ve come to the realisation that there is a very simple solution to this problem: I’ll kill Tom with professionalism. 

His reason for not being able to see me again, though still maddeningly curious, especially after the toe-curling kiss he laid on me in the middle of the foyer, will have to remain a mystery. No more tea from mugs, no more snarky curtsies, no more familiarity. No more Tom. 

I work for Mr Hiddleston, and that sort of detachment will serve me well to put this whole business behind me. It will be difficult, and possibly forever embarrassing, but I can manage for the sake of my job.

“Actually,” I finally answer. “I’m doing much better now.” It isn’t a lie 

“But you’ve not said anything!” 

I tousle the roots of my loose hair, a long standing nervous habit, and pull away from the wall. 

“I know, but I’ve been thinking a mile a minute.” 

He blinks at me, unimpressed, his arms crossed over his broad chest. 

“If you say so.”

I make to go back inside, rolling my shoulders as I go. I’m still not completely relaxed from my ruckus of a morning, but the routine of the café is making the road to calm a little easier to travel. I grab my apron from the peg on the wall, and pull it over the apron sewn onto my uniform.

“You think I could pick up a shift today?” I ask, reaching to tie the apron in place, and already knowing his answer.

He looks me over and, brash and vulgar as he is, he’s like a mother hen, keeping after his chicks. He can see I’ve been through the wringer and nods his head, a wide smile on his wide face.

“Of course, love. Any day.”

His eyes scrutinize me one last time, and for the slightest moment I can entertain that he and Lillian are of the same ilk. He reaches to squeeze my arm, and turns back into the kitchen, probably to take up his argument with Mary right where he left off. 

I pick up a rag and wipe down the already clean counter, settling into the lull between the breakfast and lunch rush. My thoughts drift back to Tilley, and Andrew, and what I will say to both of them. My mind has been doing me no favors in coming up with brilliant ideas lately, and this situation proves no different. 

Tilley and I share a queer closeness, where subtlety is non-existent, and ideas are expressed clearly. Tilley doesn’t communicate in any other way, and I’ve learned a strange sort of middle ground. For the most part, I just don’t speak at all, preferring to muddle through things internally before speaking my mind as concisely as possible. For the most part. The stack of cups I’m straightening clack together as I jostle them, sending this thought right out of my head again. Tom, Mr Hiddleston, will no longer prove an issue in this sending my mouth off before my brain can approve. He will not. 

Tilley speaks her mind, and I adore her for it. She keeps me honest, and that’s what worries me. I’m so afraid that I can’t be honest here, not this time. If she discovers my whereabouts last night, she’ll want to story, and she’ll want an invitation to the wedding, as that is how her sister spending an evening with her favorite star would have to conclude. If I forego that, and only tell her that he’s my new house, well, she will certainly want to at least meet him. 

My heart clenches, because I can’t be sure what Tom would do in the situation. Part of me, a very small part, wants to believe he would love to meet Tilley, as he seemed so willing to do when I left him last night. But I wouldn’t be able to stand his refusal, to put Tilley in that tender situation of reporting back that her favorite acting villain was really villain after all. I don’t know that I could bring myself to ask him, either. Not precisely the professional agenda, asking for the favor of a private meet and greet with my sister. 

It’s becoming sickeningly obvious that I may not be able to tell her anything, for her sake, and, more selfishly, for my own. I can’t see a way in which this wouldn’t end in disaster. 

As for Andrew, I owe him less of a truth, if any. Though he and I can’t deny that he’s become a much larger part of both Tilley’s life, and mine, than what was expected, the fact of the matter is that he is in a boat similar to mine. He’s paid to take care of Tilley, and though we’ve grown so very close over the last seven years, it still holds true.

The thought feels disloyal, cold and cruel downright false. I feel a coward, looking for a way to avoid yet another painful conversation. I know, truly, that Andrew is more than a caretaker, and quarantining him into that category isn’t nice, or fair. It smacks of hypocrisy, on top of everything else. 

I slap the stack of menus I’ve been sorting down on the counter, startling the singular diner in the place. I offer a weak smile, and rustle my hair again.

This is what I get for acting out of my normal life. This is my punishment for thinking I could do something more, even for a night. As if I haven’t learned this lesson thoroughly enough already, I had to see for myself that the other side of the fence is just grass, as well. 

Enough.

I’ll drive myself mad if I stew over this any longer. The bells on the door jingle, and I greet the start of the lunch crowd with a genuine smile. The blessed escape of having something to accomplish washes over me, and I go to bring them a menu.

\--

I stay at the café until Jules practically kicks me out the door. I’m trying to stay until the last possible moment, and he knows my tricks. I opt for the long walk home, enjoying the new-found warmth of the evening air, a refreshing change from the long cold of winter. Today, for all its downs and farther downs, has been lovely in its springtime brightness. London doesn’t always afford for such niceties, and I’m glad for at least this much on one of the longest days of my life. As I trudge up the stairs to my flat, the rich smell of cooking reminds me that it isn’t over yet.

“You don’t have to cook supper, Andrew,” I say as I hang my purse on the hook by the door. I’ve said this exact phrase approximately three thousand times over the years, to the point that I don’t think he hears me any more. As he has taken to writing up our grocery list for several years now, I don’t suppose that I really pay attention to me either. 

“It’s only spaghetti, Syd,” he says from over his shoulder. He’s washing dishes, as I’m sure they both ate over an hour ago. “Yours is in the microwave, for when you finally decide to eat it.” 

He turns from the sink, and his face is expectant. 

Shit.

I’d hoped, against all hope, that he had forgotten. It would be pretty much impossible for him to forget, as him staying late last night was a favor already, and I would never, ordinarily, not call to say I would be late. Still, I had wished for a singular break in all of this, and it appears I’m not going to get it.

“Thanks again, for last night,” I venture, knowing one of us will have to bring it up. 

He crosses his arms over his chest again, and looks hard at me. He has a teasing grin on his face that simultaneously makes me want to confess everything, finally, to him, to someone, and to just out and out throttle him. I could , beanpole that he is. He’s got a mop of red hair that rivals mine in unruliness, freckles, and the goofiest, most lopsided grin I’ve ever seen. That he’s any sort of professional and actually in his thirties is completely masked by his perpetual boyish look. I could take him.

I stay quiet.

“You said you would tell me this evening,” he says, leading and with an arch of a brow. “You promised, even.” 

I shift uncomfortably on the balls of my feet, and check the time on my phone. 

“Well, look, I’ve got to be headed out again soon, so--” I say, before he interrupts me.

“Syd! I think it’s great!” The look on his face confuses me more than his words. Almost like his approval is plastered on.

“You think what’s great?”

“You’ve met someone. Don’t say you haven’t.” He’s dropped his arms, and is bracing against the edge of the sink. He’s casual in his certainty.

“I-- What makes you think that?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

His look has changed, and he’s stares at me as if I’m a total dimwit. I hope he’ll be decent enough to not call me out on how decidedly shagged I looked when I’d come through the door last night.

“You had on a men’s shirt poking out from under your jumper, Syd. Don’t think I didn’t notice.” I look away. Not quite calling me a slag, but definitely telling, nonetheless. “I thought…” 

I look back to him, the teasing lilt to his voice gone. 

“I thought we were close enough that you’d feel comfortable telling me if you were seeing someone.” 

I hate this. I hate not being able to say. Any other time, I would of course tell Andrew at least something. I’m not one to bare my soul, but to Andrew, I feel I can expose just a little. I sometimes think he is the closest thing I have to a best friend. But something is holding me back. For some reason, I can’t make myself divulge.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I hear how lame the apology is. I can see the hurt on his face, and I feel that pang of callousness. This isn’t me; I don’t like treating him like this. 

“I could tell you this morning, but now I can’t,” I say, and it’s the closest to the truth I can let myself get. Part of me hopes he will pick up on what I’m trying to say, but it’s such a vague statement, I’m almost positive he won’t. 

“What’s that even mean?” he says, the hurt still evident on his expressive face.

I decide to give a little more. I can do that much.

“This morning I was--” I think for a moment, “-- _free_ to tell you. But after today, I’m not.” God, that sounds so horribly melodramatic.

I watch his face for any sort of understanding. Something flickers across it, but I know I haven’t said enough. I _can’t_ say enough.

Though, the shift of his posture tells me he’s caught something. Some piece of this, this stupid grand mystery I’ve decided to shroud myself in, has touched some part of his understanding.

“Fine,” he says, letting me off the hook. He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t look as if I’ve kicked him, either. “You’ll want to see what Tilley’s done before you head out.” 

I smile weakly, glad that, even if he hasn’t forgiven me, he seems to understand that I’m in some sort of tight spot.

“I’ve got to finish up in here,” he says, turning back to the dishes. 

“No, you--” I begin. 

“Stuff it, Syd,” he says.

I deserve that, I suppose. He always tries to keep after the housework, though it’s not remotely in his job description. I think he wants to keep me from bringing the office home with me, as it were. Always so kind and I’ve just...

Yeah, I definitely deserve that.

I knock on Tilley’s perpetually shut door before I can think of a joke. 

“Who’s there?”

My tired brain goes to a tired response.

“Lettuce.”

She doesn’t laugh at this one, and I don’t really blame her.

“Lettuce, who?”

“Lettuce in, love,” I finish softly, as I turn the knob. The door bumps against something as I push it open, and Tilley lets out a too-loud cry of distress.

“Watch it, Sydie!” she chides, and I slide in sideways through the narrow crack the door will open. 

She’s gotten quite a start on her construction of the London Eye, and even in its bare-bones state of incomplete, it’s massive. Its base takes up much of the scant free floor space of her room, partially blocking the door.

It’s brilliant.

“Tilley, this is great,” I say, and I mean it. She astounds me with her engineering prowess. She hasn’t used the manuals that come with the Meccano sets in years, and I honestly think she’s better for it. She spends days preparing, reading the different books I’ve collected for her over the years, and the results are always just amazing. I wonder, if things were different, what she could do for herself. What I could help her do, if I weren’t always working.

Speaking of which.

“I just wanted to pop in to see what you’d gotten done, Tilley. I have to run to make it by eight thirty.”

She’s awkwardly squatting over an extended piece of the base, attaching a smaller piece she’s already constructed. 

“You stink,” she says, surprising me. What's this?

“You know I have--” I start, but she says it again, louder.

“You stink!” The piece she was attaching falls from her hands and clatters to the floor. She kicks it hard, and I dodge out of the way of its pointy metal trajectory. “You stink like smoke!” 

I hear Andrew trying to fit through the door, and I hope he won’t be necessary. I hope Tilley won’t get to that point.

“I know, I smoked today. I’m sorry, Goose, I had a long--” 

“You stink like smoke and you stole my Loki!” 

I feel the blood drain from my face as I realise why she’s so upset. I try to put myself between her and the metal contraption. It’s hard with the limited space, but I can’t handle a trip to hospital on top of everything else. I can’t handle Tilley hurt.

“I didn’t steal your Loki,” I say, in the calm tone that seems to work the best. She shoves me a bit, and the base of her model threatens to trip me. She’s so strong. Tall as me, with the advantage heartier muscle, as opposed to my more sinewy frame. She can topple me so easily. Andrew joins me in making a barrier between her and the model. We don’t touch her.

“Words, not hands, Tilley. Words, not hands,” he says. He throws me an anxious glance and I continue. 

“It’s in my purse, Tilley. I promise.” I didn’t even think. In all of this, I didn’t even think! I didn’t even notice the little bugger in my purse, that stupid little figurine I’d been tasked to get signed, for all the things going on today, last night. I’d been so wrapped up in my own mess--

“You want me to get him for you, Goose? Tilley Goose?” She pushes me again, but with much less conviction. She’s coming down quickly, and I’m glad for it. Some things have a simple solution with Tilley, and I’m so relieved this is one. 

“Did he see it?” she asks, and my face contracts in almost pain. I didn’t even think.

“No, Goose, he didn’t.” I keep repeating the endearment, hoping it will work its magic and keep her calm through the admission. “The crowd was so big last night, I couldn’t make it to him.” It’s not totally a lie. Not completely. 

It’s such a fucking lie.

“Is that why you were late last night?” she asks. She’s shrinking, making her way to the ground. I’m so glad she won’t look at me. “Because of him? Because of the crowd?”

It hurts, how twisted I feel over this. It’s sick, the out she’s given me.

“Yes,” I say, and I know it’s the truth. But, what’s worse, I know the even greater truth behind it. I’m longing for another cigarette.

“That’s why I was late.” I can’t bear to say more than that.

Andrew looks at me, his eyes narrow. He think I’m lying, and I am, just not the lie he supposes. He’s looking hard at me, accusing, and I break away before he can piece this together with what was said in the kitchen. Will this day ever end?

“I’ll go get Loki now, Tilley Goose,” I say as I back out of the room. 

Andrew is close behind me as I make it through the kitchen to my purse.

“Syd--”

“Will you give this to her?” I say, cutting him off. “She isn’t mad at you; it might keep her calm.”

I turn to him, and am met with yet another disapproving face. He’s not happy with this, but I can’t lie to her again tonight. I hand over the toy, hoping he’ll just let this lie. He takes it, his face taking on a sad tilt. 

“I’ve got to go…” I say, picking up the sports bag I keep packed by the door.

“You’ve always got to go, Syd,” he says, and I just feel so monumentally tired. 

I open the door from behind my back, nodding, and feeling suddenly like I might cry.

“Be back soon,” I say, before pushing through the door, and running off to my last appointment for the day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading, and enjoying! I apologize for thew delay in an update, though truth be told, this is about my usual speed. Again, any feedback is welcome and wanted. Thank you, and enjoy!

Two days later, I’m staring at the modest back door of Tom’s, Mr Hiddleston’s, house. I finger the key I've been issued, nervous to walk in on my own. No matter the planning I've done, the multiple times I've told myself that I can definitely do this, the many tactics for avoiding those awkward moments I've tried to formulate- it all comes down to walking in the door alone. 

I’m glad for my day’s respite from going again to Mr Hiddleston’s. I don’t know that I could have faced him again so soon, and after my longest day of the week. After coming home that night, aching and sweating, as I had pushed extra hard after that kind of a day, I don’t know that I could have been buggered to do much of anything, much less plan my second chance at a first day with him. I spent my day, instead, again at Julian’s, using the time between filling customers’ mugs with tea and coffee to determine how I would approach this wholly new situation, how the next day would go.

For all the heartache the NDS had caused me the day before, it seemed like it would really be my ticket to keeping this whole horrible thing to myself. I don’t know how far it would get me with Tilley, telling her that I was technically bound by law to withhold who I was working for, but it was a solid, and very real, reason. I’d told her about Mr Benson, but he had been the kind of powerful that plebian, working-class Janes and Johns wouldn’t know a thing about. There had been no harm in it. Now I work for someone righteously famous; now I have to keep the secret. Which, of course, makes the secret all the more enticing.

There isn’t much to be done about it.

Then there is the issue of actually filling the role of housekeeper. I’m glad that I have five years of working for an unwed bachelor to reassure me that I know how to fill the hours in an extravagantly vacant house. I won’t let it become too uncomfortable as I will be far too busy working. 

This is the affirmation I repeat to myself every time the thought of Tom’s desperate kiss, or the smoky look in his eyes, resurfaces. I’ll be too busy working.

The inevitability of his near constant absence is another thought I soothe as aloe over the burn of my worry. He won’t be around that much, anyway! Dear Mr Benson was always around somewhere, a pensioner with no family, so we of course exchanged pleasantries throughout the day. Mr Hiddleston, however, will surely be far and away from the sunny house at the end of the row more often than not.

This is the thought that steadies my hand as I fit the key into the lock. I’ll get through this first day; I’ll make it through the interview over his preferences, and that will be the worst of it. He surely won’t be around all that much.

The back door leads into a mudroom off the kitchen. Again, the walls are washed whitest white, all the shelves and hooks and baskets set to match, with much of their contents, towels and handy tools and assorted oddments, also in the same white. It is a clean look, to be sure, but the monotony of it borders on almost clinical. The sets of grubby trainers strewn about contrast fantastically by comparison. I bend to collect the shoes, pairing them with their mates and tucking them into the different open cupboards lining the wall. Even that small urge to tidy has made me feel a bit more at ease. I lock the door behind me. 

I walk through the kitchen and into the bright reception room, hoping to find Tom, Mr Hiddleston, still sitting on the settee. I had been a little early, only about ten minutes, from the time that Lillian had texted me, but with my vacillating at the back entrance, and my inspection of the mudroom, I am almost on time. I don’t see him in this room and don’t really relish the idea of having to search him out in his own house, or worse, track him down if he’s forgotten.

The muffled sounds of a phone conversation stop me as I hear him fumbling with the lock of the back door. 

“All I’m saying is that it’ll keep, mate. A couple more months, after the Donmar,” he says. From where I’m standing, I can look through some of the smaller side the windows of the reception room into the mudroom through its singular exterior window. His mobile is strapped to his bare arm and white buds hang from his ears. His worn tee shirt and cut-off sweats make me think he must have been on a jog. Feeling suddenly as if I am spying, I make back to the kitchen, hoping to announce myself without startling him.

“I wasn’t too keen on the idea in the first place,” he continues. He’s toeing off his trainers, leaning with one hand on the white, white wall, and notices that the others have been stowed away.

“And now…” He looks up suddenly, seeing me for the first time. His face grows serious, not quite pinched, and I clasp my hands in front of me to keep from fidgeting. “I just need some time,” he says with some finality.

“I’ve got to go,” he says as he pulls the mobile from his arm and tugs the buds from his ears. He’s still looking at me, but his face has softened somewhat. His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, shining curls tucked behind his ears. His shirt shows the drying stains of sweat, though the dirt on his hands and knees is a bit confusing. Where was he jogging? Was he jogging?

“Morning,” he says, his smile warm if a little uncomfortable. He glances down to his phone to end the call and chuckles. “You’re punctual.”

I return the smile; I'm sure equally uncomfortable and, I hope, somewhat warm.

“Always, sir,” I answer, hoping to set up our new dynamic quickly. He flinches, as if I’ve smacked him.

“Can you not at least call me Tom?” he asks, his voice giving away the frustration hidden behind his small smile.

“I’d rather not, sir.” 

Though, if he requires it, I really must. I hope the idea doesn’t occur to him. 

He fiddles with the earbuds before noticing his hands, and goes over to the sink to wash up. 

“So, uh.” He doesn’t look at me, and picks up a small wooden brush to scrub the dirt from under his fingernails. “Welcome back, I guess.”

“Yeah,” I say, and I’m about ready to pull my hair out with the stagnant tension between our words. I clear my throat. “I guess we should talk.”

He turns from the sink, drying his hands on a small tea towel and leaning back to rest on the countertop. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” Laying down the towel, he reaches to toy with the collar of his worn shirt, while his other hand flops the towel this way and that on the counter. He’s watching the movement of the towel, his eyes pinched. “About that call I gave you the morning...after…”

“Oh, no!” I cut in, hurriedly stopping his words before he can say anything more. I make stride towards him, intent on keeping him from uttering another syllable. I’m sinfully curious to know what he will say, but the stoic professional in me surges forth. 

“No, sir, I wasn’t clear. I should have worded it differently.” I stop a respectful distance away from him. “I meant that we should discuss my duties and your expectations of me as your housekeeper.”

He is pinching the neck of the shirt now, and the towel is bunched in a loosely clenched fist. I push through his silence.

“Whatever your reasons for…” I trail off, and blow out a frustrated rush of air through my teeth. “That, all of that, that--” Encounter. Tryst. Romp. Shag. “--event is no longer an appropriate discussion. I--”

I throw my head back, so tired of the situation already. 

“We needn’t discuss it,” I continue. “It’s a moot point now, as I’m to stay on, and I would appreciate it, sir, respectfully, if we could just forget it.” I say this with more force than I intend, but if nothing else, it’s proof of my honest frustration. I can’t get over what this man brings out of me, as I would never speak so frankly to any other client. 

I'm sure he'll be glad for an excuse to forget the whole mess, until he looks up from the crumpled towel to me. He looks tired again, like he did at the hotel when we were waiting for the lift, or day before yesterday over tea. I'm reminded of his cryptic remark on having wanted to see me again, but, for some reason, not being able. Perhaps giving him an out on revealing that reason isn't quite the relief I supposed. _Damn it._

I can't think on that, though. It's thoughts like those that can keep me from doing the job I'm hired for. If he wants me here as his housekeeper, that's all I can be. My job, and Tilley's livelihood, depends on it. 

He's silent for a long moment before breaking into a wide, too wide, grin. 

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I--" He tousles his hair then smooths it back. "Of course we can.”

I return the grin, and for a moment, we’re two idiots smiling at each other in a lavish kitchen, lying to one another. I’m realising there will never come a day when this whole affair isn’t going to be somewhat uncomfortable, but at least now, we don’t have to talk about it.

The following silence is a long one. It seems to be our thing.

“Back from a jog?” I ask, finally. His brows knit in question, and I vaguely indicate towards his outfit.

“Oh!” he blurts, seeming to just remember that he is standing about in his stocking feet and sweats. “No, not for a couple of hours. I can’t run this late in the day, unless I want the press judging me on my form.”

It’s only half seven, so he must have been up well before the sun. This doesn’t explain the dirt on his hands and knees, and his still apparent sweat stains, but he doesn’t elaborate and I don’t press further.

“Let me go wash up and change. I’ll be right down, and then I can show you the place?” 

From what I knew of him, this uncomfortable demeanor was somewhat surprising. He wasn’t remotely uncomfortable marching around completely starkers at the hotel. What’s changed? Besides the obvious.

“Perfect, sir,” I answer.

He pushes off from the counter and is almost out the door before I realise that in a moment I’ll just be standing like a loon in his kitchen, waiting for him to get back. 

“Would you like anything?” I ask, and he stops, turning and sliding not too gracefully in his socks on the polished floor. 

“Pardon?” 

“A cup of tea, or coffee? I doubt I’ll have time to do a full English, but I could look ‘round the cupboards if you haven’t eaten--”

“No! You don’t have to do that, Syd.” He makes a face, looking almost pained, and forces a laugh. “I can take care of myself.”

He takes off again, and I have to reel in the inclination to stamp my foot. _Then what the hell am I doing here?_

I set about making him a cup of tea anyway, deciding it's the only way I'll ever get a start on this day. I make sure to use the proper set this time, using the smaller of the two pots, as I won't be joining him. I take this time to acquaint myself further with the kitchen, and begin to assess what will be used most often. He seems well stocked, and I don’t think I will need to request anything to get through my day. 

Just as I begin to worry that the tea will over-steep, he trots back into the kitchen.

For all the effort I’ve put into thinking of him as no one but the man whose house I keep, I can’t deny my attraction to him. He is masculine in a way that dries my mouth, slender without being gaunt, and finely muscled without bulge or bulk. He has the healthy look of a man that takes good care of his body, though I think he could stand to get a little more sleep. But most of all, he wears his masculinity well, easily. He stands with confidence, even now in jeans and a button down. His hair is wet from the shower, and combed back, the curl of it peeking out from behind his ears and neck. My eyes settle on the vulnerable slice of neck and chest exposed by the top several forgotten buttons of his shirt. 

“I told you not to do that,” he says, and my eyes shoot to his, panicked. His look is hard and I feel heat spear through me. He glances at the tea, and I let out a shaky breath, realising what he meant.

“I have to keep my hands busy,” I say, as I pour milk into the tea cup. My downcast eyes notice that his feet are bare, and for some unfathomable reason, this unsettles me. “Or I’ll go mad.”

I pour in the tea, and extend to him the cup and saucer. He waits a beat before taking it from me.

“Only because you make the best brew that I can remember having,” he concedes. He takes a sip, and lets out that almost vulgar groan from our shared tea two days prior. I enjoy his enjoyment of tea, and I take a small bit of pleasure in his particular enjoyment of mine. I know I shouldn’t, and I know it does nothing to further my oath of professionalism, but I grin all the same at his rapture.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and my heart races, that heat shooting through me again. To a more focused location, this time. This is never going to be easy.

I pretend to tidy up as he takes more time with his tea, trying to cool the hot that has swept suddenly over me. The spotlessness of his kitchen irritates me, as I just want to dive under that mindless muscle memory of cleaning. Anything to steer my thoughts from the path they are taking. I hear him set down the saucer, and turn back to him. His hand is worrying the back of his neck and he’s looking at me oddly.

“Let me show you the place,” he says, finally, and we set off.

Off the enormous reception room are the guest bedrooms and bathrooms. It’s obvious that he has just moved into the house, for the impersonal perfection of much of the decor. One room seems to have housed a teenager in times past, an architectural and modern lofted bed built into one corner. I imagine Tilly would have a day, attaching different contraptions to the piping acting as a bedrail, and catapulting things at those hapless enough to enter the room.

There are four bedrooms in all, and a small seating area at the end of the hall with windows that let out to the small alley garden between the houses. More of the painful white, and, as my brain translates, lots of dusting to keep on top of. As I assume they will be mostly unoccupied, this will be an easier chore than what it threatens.

We go back to the great room, which I’ve determined will likely be my opus in the stately house. The fifth bedroom, Mr Hiddleston’s bedroom, is in a massive L-shaped open loft above us, sectioned off only by miles of handrails. There are two sets of stairs leading to it, from the foyer where Lillian and I came in, and from the far side of the reception room. We take the far stairs.

“This is my domain,” he jokes, broadly gesturing with his hands. It is airy and unabashedly open, and I think that I would never be able to sleep with so much free space around me for my thoughts to wander. But more than that, this is starkest white of the entire house. It’s carpeted, a long shag in the same institutional colour, and the bed clothes and full bookcases and modern nightstands all proudly match. 

“The bedroom is all white,” he says. “Just for sleeping. When the day is over, I want an empty white room, where I can focus only on sleep.”

His words sound odd, and I can’t help the doubtful twist my face takes.

“That’s very…” I begin.

Bleak, I think. 

“...poetic,” I finish, not wanting to admit that the whole thing rather reminds me of a hospital ward.

“Really?” he says, his voice laughing. “I think it’s terribly bleak.” 

I bite back my grin.

“My stylist quoted it to me, from some big Japanese stylist.” 

I exhale, comforted knowing he agrees. I was already beginning to form such harsh opinions of him, based and the stiff decor. 

“I think he was just being lazy, really. All the white. I sacked him.” He doesn’t laugh at that, though I can tell it grates on him. I think he is like me, and puts everything he has into his work. Other people’s laziness probably irritates him to no end and having someone he hired to complete a task fail his expectations is simply not acceptable. I log this away, vowing to not be found wanting in my work.

“I just haven’t gotten around to fixing all of it, hiring someone new. I’m afraid it’ll probably mean more work for you and your devil’s playthings,” he says, and it takes me a moment to understand his meaning. I laugh softly, though the almost flirtatious statement startles me.

“Idle hands,” I say, and he nods. The room has definite potential, most of the walls consisting of built-ins stuffed with books. There are different piles of them here and there, and I think of the small thrill I will get from tidying them. I always crane to see what people are reading, at the cafe or on the tube or on the street, and not generally in an inconspicuous way. E-readers prove more a problem, and my nasty, nosy habit has landed me in a few embarrassing situations. This little bit of snooping, one of my few joys as a housekeeper, will prove much less troublesome.

“It all needs redone,” he says, though more to himself than to me.

“Even the kitchen?” I say, before I can think better of it. I love the warmth of the wooden cupboards, and the book shelves tucked under the lip of the jutting breakfast bar. He turns surprised eyes towards me.

“You like the kitchen? As it is?”

I don’t answer immediately, and he turns away from me, a smile on his lips like he’s enjoying a private joke.

The master bath was on the way in from the reception room stairs, and at the far end of the L-shaped room is a study, though it isn’t partitioned off from the bedroom. Even more built-ins line these walls, filled with even more books. A desk that clashes terrifically with the bleak sits here, neat though obviously often used. It’s dark wood and antique, and I can imagine him sitting at it, balancing his cheque book or filling out tax forms by lamp light. The vision is queer and I shake it from my head. The man probably hasn’t balanced a cheque book in years.

“Okay, so, that’s the house,” he says, and stuffs his hands into his back pockets.

We stand in silence for a few moments more in the space between the study and the bedroom, and I ask a question that occurred to me after the second time he said, “And this is another bedroom.” and nothing else.

“Have you never had a housekeeper before?”

He laughs, his tongue pressing up into his upper teeth, and he rocks on his heels. 

“My family did when I was in primary school,” he says, sheepishly. “But other than bringing someone in once or twice for different things, uh, no. You’re my first.”

I smile, a genuinely warm, reassuring smile, and breathe a little easier knowing at least some of his discomfort probably stemmed from this.

“Don’t worry,” I chide. “I’ll be gentle.” 

I squeeze my eyes shut at the cliché, at what sounds like my blatantly flirting with him, but he laughs again, hearty and full. I try again.

“Or rather, I could refresh your cup, and I can tell you how I like to do things.” More laughter. I know he isn’t teasing me, and I might laugh with him if it weren’t for my horrible overreaction to embarrassment.

“Around the house,” I add in his same sheepish tone.

His laughter carries him down the stairs, and I follow after, loosening a little. He’s stopped once we make it to the kitchen, but his amused smile remains. It’s infuriatingly catching. 

“I like you,” he says suddenly, and I want to tell him that I like him, too. He’s surprising and frustrating and he makes me say things I ordinarily wouldn’t. Under different circumstances, I might enjoy working for someone like him. Or I might have liked to have been his friend. 

“I work from top to bottom,” I say, instead. “Usually by the time I make it to the bottom, the top’s ready for me again. Makes for a good weekly cycle.”

I check the tea. It’s still hot, though it wants water. I set the kettle to boil and tidy what little mess has been made. Looking at my working hands instead of at him.

“I have my dailies, of course. Laundry and dishes and tea, if you’d like. I try to keep after the hoovering more than just once a week, as well. It makes a load of difference.”

I add the water to the pot, then milk-in-first and the tea. I push the refreshed cup across to him and clean up the service, setting the pieces in the sink and turning on the tap. A quick glance over to him and I see that he is watching my working hands, too. I try not to fumble.

“I do the shopping generally once a week, unless I determine I’ll need something more frequently or you require something be bought fresher. You’ll have setup your account with Lillian, so there isn’t much to do other than keep after the list. You have my number--” he coughs, startling me, and I clatter one of the delicate cups, “--so you can text me with things you want added as you think of them. I answer business texts until 10 pm.”

“And personal texts?” he asks. I look over to him and his eyes are still on my soapy hands. He looks up, mischief creasing the corners of his eyes.

“I don’t receive personal texts.” 

I open the cupboard for a fresh tea towel, glad to know my way around the kitchen a bit, especially under his close scrutiny. I get to show-off, just a little, as silly as that is. I hope he doesn’t make a habit of it, this watching me. It’s distracting.

“I don’t generally cook, though I can,” I say, trying to ignore his heavy stares and light quips. “Lighter fare; breakfast and tea and that. We can discuss what you’d like, if that’s something you’re interested in.” After my hunting through his kitchen, I’ve determined that either he cooks, or someone does. Simple things, with simple ingredients; meat and two veg. But he doesn’t seem totally helpless.

“No, as I said, I can take care of myself.” His statement is frustrating, though not quite so frustrating as his move to try to help with drying the freshly washed tea service. He is actually reaching the take the towel out of my grasp! I have to make myself not swat his hands away.

“Then why did you hire a housekeeper?” I ask, my tone bordering on shrill. I turn to block his second move toward the sink and towel. He holds his hands up in surrender, though his look is that of a severely peeved man. 

“Your house is near spotless as is; surely you don’t require someone just to tidy you trainers--” I stop myself before I can ask further. It’s none of my business why. There are countless reasons why anyone would hire a person for a service, and my demanding to know his is being too familiar, all over again. 

“I’m sorry; that was uncalled for. I didn’t mean to pry. Sir,” I finish, instead.

He backs away, thankfully, leaving me in my own space, and I subtly push him out further as I move to set the clean service back on the tray.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and I’m noticing he apologises quite a lot. To this point, I think them all deserved, but I have a feeling he is one of those that would say “sorry” for saying “sorry.” 

“No need, sir.” I begin wiping down the wet around the sink, and I can just feel him looking.

There it is again, that static silence that follows so much of what we say. I think I can allow for one more candid remark, as I think it will help us both. 

“I _am_ hired to be your housekeeper, though. That’s my job, and I’m very good at it.” 

I set down the towel and turn towards him. He’s moved a little closer, again, and for a flashing moment I think of when he kissed me in the foyer. He could easily plant his hands on the counter, bracketing me in, and I’d be had all over again. Though I hate it, though the thought does nothing to serve me well, I feel that tiny seedling of want. I need to dig it up, before it takes root, before it makes these days in this house any more disagreeable than they already threaten.

“I want to do good work for you,” I continue, and he looks down at the floor, that odd look of pain on his face again, shifting closer. I dig faster. “But you must let me do what I’m hired to do. I don’t require help. I am the help.”

“Please!” he almost yells, suddenly. “Fine, that’s fine. I-- You do…what you need to do. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you from your work. Just please,” he slices his hand through his hair again, looking around the room as if the cupboards will tell him what to say next. He’s looking away, over my shoulder, when he speaks again.

“Please, don’t call yourself that. ‘The help.’ I-- I can’t, I won’t have that.” He looks at me with the last statement. I nod, feeling small again.

“Of course, Mr Hiddleston.”

He flinches.

“Do you have any other requests?”

“Yes,” he answers, almost immediately. “You must call me Tom. Enough with this ‘Mr Hiddleston, sir’ business. It’s very nearly farcical considering we’ve--” he pauses, lips pursed. “It’s Tom, from now on.”

I nod again.

“Of course, s-- Tom.” It feels strange on my tongue, and I decide I’ll deny him that pleasure as often as I can. I don’t know that I can keep at it if I am to be so informal with him. 

“Is there anything else--” the ‘sir’ threatens again. “Is there anything else? You mustn’t let me keep you from anything. Errands, or the like,” I prompt. I want him out and away. He isn’t supposed to be around that much, so says my mantra. I’ve had enough of him to last me the week.

“What? Oh.” He rocks back, and waggles his bare feet. I understand now why they unnerved me earlier. “I’m afraid this is it for me, today; until this evening. I’m doing a run in town, so I’ll be around a lot for the next couple of months. It’s nice to have a bit of a holiday, wear-in the new house a bit.” 

The implications of this rocket straight to my temples. The next couple of _months?_

Fucking splendid. A holiday for whom? Certainly not me. 

“Nothing else, then? No detergent allergies I should be aware of? Scents you find abhorrent? When do you take your tea?” I’m willing to wager if he won’t let me cook for him, he will allow me to prepare his tea. I’ve got that weakness securely pinned.

“Just before you leave, will be fine,” he concedes, his eyes knowing. No use in arguing with me. “Whatever works. ‘Abhorrent?’” He says the last in a much lighter, teasing tone, smiling. It’s like the man stands in front of a funhouse mirror, for the changes in shape and intensities he takes.

“It means detestable, offensive,” I say, cheekily.

His smile darkens. 

“I know what it means, darling,” he says. “Just a surprising choice of word.”

I’m used to the clients thinking me a div, so I let it go. It doesn’t even occur to me to be insulted, anymore.

“If that’s all, then, I’ll get to it.” 

I don’t wait for him to answer as I cross the kitchen and pull open the double doors to the fairly stocked cleaning closet next to the mudroom. I begin pulling things from the shelves and making mental notes of what I will have to get on my first shopping trip, aware that he hasn’t exited the room yet. I glance over my shoulder at him, meet his eyes, and he kneads the back of his neck, lips pursed in apparent deep thought. An infinitesimal nod of the head, and he pads from the room.

Finally.

I breathe my first deep breath of the hour, and my work-day gears click into place. 

Finally, finally.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should apologize for the delay on this installment, but I might just leave this here with no promises to do better in the future. I lead a very busy life, and I think about this story about 89% of it. Even with that, the updates will come when they come. Thank you all for being so kind and patient. You are the absolute best. 
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome and wanted! 
> 
> _***Huge, huge thank you to my best friend in the entire world, **startraveller776** for unapologetically beta-ing this chapter for me. She really helped me whip this into shape, and y’all should thank her for making me make this better.***_

It is going to be a long couple of months.

If this day is as typical as I’m afraid it is, there will be little escaping Mr Hiddleston--Tom-- _Mr Hiddleston_ \--as I go about my work.

He _watches_ me, and not like the prissy housewives I’ve worked for before, hoping to catch me pocketing an iPod or the loose change from the bowl, or even the leering husbands looking to find material for--or even to fulfill--their fantasies of shagging the maid. No, this is like their children, fascinated by this stranger in their house, picking up their toys. He’s a bit less obvious than that, but only a bit. It’s maddening.

As I told him, I clean top to bottom, which in most cases, would be an indicator to any normal person that I have given him the roadmap for avoiding me. I’ll start at the top of the house and he stays on the ground floor; interaction: eliminated. It’s what most people want from their cleaning ladies, a tidying non-presence. But the bastard follows me!

Not directly, of course. That would prove predictable and be easy enough to ignore, and damn it all if he is ever predictable or ignorable. No, he rather has a way of just turning up for dubiously legitimate reasons, like opening that drawer for something, or flipping through this book for something else. I stopped asking if he needed anything after the third time he 'just happened' to cross my path.

“What? No. I’m just looking for my pedometer,” he says.

“I only needed this bookmark,” he says.

Maddening.

More than once, when I look over to him, his eyes are not on the found pedometer or the bookmark, but rather on me, or more precisely, whatever it is I'm doing. I try to let this go, but as he squints at my tucking the corners of fresh sheets military-style under the mattress, my impatience gets away from me.

“Am I not doing it correctly, sir? Tom?”

That was blunt, I realise belatedly. I would never have snapped at Mr Benson like that.

He seems unoffended enough and his sharp gaze relaxes as he smiles. At what, I haven’t the foggiest.

“Looks perfect to me,” he says and continues to watch.

The rest of the day yields similar exchanges: me asking with thinly veiled frustration if everything is to his liking as he follows me around the house, and him stretching a strange smile, assuring me that everything is just peachy.

At least he doesn’t make an effort to help me again.

Around five o’clock, I feel I’m at a fair stopping place and make my way to the kitchen for the last task of the day. Tom has left me alone for the last hour or so and I’m glad for it. With all his frank but silent assessment of my work today, I might have had a nervous breakdown if he were to watch me fold the laundry.

He isn’t anywhere around when I come up from the small basement laundry suite. I thought I might start tea, but if he’s finally behaved like a normal man and left the house, I won’t bother. Not that I mind preparing tea, far from, but I don’t enjoy a wasted effort.

Just as I’m about to mount the stairs to his bedroom to look for him, I hear the door to the mudroom open again. He’s washing his hands by the time I make it to the kitchen.

“All right if I put the kettle on?” I ask.

He turns from the sink, wiping his hands on the fronts of his jeans. The knees are soiled and he’s covered in a fine sheen of sweat again.

"That time already?" he says, and I think he sounds disappointed, of all things.

"Unless there is something else you would like done before I go,” I offer.

He just smiles pleasantly and leaves the kitchen.

“I’ll be down in just a few minutes,” he says from over his shoulder, and I shrug it off, starting tea.

He’s back in the great room, looking fresh again by the time I bring out the tray. I won’t be lacking for laundry at this rate. I set down the tray and am almost back to the kitchen when he stops me.

“Er, Syd--”

I turn and see his brow is drawn, as if his thoughts are hard to voice.

“Would you join me?”

“For tea, sir?” _Is he serious?_

He pauses and draws his tongue over his bottom lip. His eyebrows knit further. ”I requested you call me Tom, Sydney.” His tone has changed, not quite warning or reprimanding, but something equally predatory.

“And...” He shakes his head and looks down suddenly, breaking the intensity of the moment. He laughs weakly, and when he looks up, his teasing half-smile is back in place. “I request you take tea with me.”

I can tell he is quite serious about how he wants this to go, his smile and laugh notwithstanding. Something about his stiff posture, the tips of his fingers planted sharply into the tops of his thighs, belies his flippant tone. I decided before that I liked him, though now I’m less sure.

“I’ll go grab another cup.”

Why should it matter if I grant his request? I’ve been bossed around much less cordially in the past and asked to do much less enjoyable things than taking a cuppa at the end of the day. I sat with Mr Benson on more than one occasion over the years, keeping the older man company. Why should this be any different?

When I come back into the room, the reason makes himself apparent, quiet delight brightening his eyes as I take the farthest seat from him possible while still remaining polite. I’m not keeping some poor man company, though I can’t be sure exactly what I _am_ doing.

"I hope I didn't sound too bossy. I just think it's absurd for you to take your tea in the kitchen when it's just the two of us in the house," Tom says, his tone light.

He stops me from pouring out, which I am begrudgingly coming to accept as a reality of our dynamic. I chew my lip as he pours milk, then tea into both our cups. I don't meet his eye when he passes me mine. A heavy silence follows.

"Tell me something," he says.

I glance up at his words. While I sit fidgeting uncomfortably in this stagnant situation he has concocted, he seems blithely unfazed. The confidence this man exudes is staggering. "I'm sorry?”

"Tell me something. Anything. Tell me something about you."

I set down my cup, rattling it on its saucer. "Why?"

He looks bewildered at this, and I can't quite fault him for it. Getting to know someone over tea is practically what merry old England is built on. But, and I don't know how often I can express this sentiment, I'm not here for him to get to know.

"Because," he says, sounding taken aback. "I want to know more about you. I like knowing things about people, about my friends."

"I'm not really your friend." I wince. There is no delicate way to say that.

Before a look of hurt can fully develop on his face, he smothers it with that confident smile. "No, I don't suppose you are,” he says. He takes a long sip of his tea. "Not yet, anyway." 

He doesn't press me for an answer, but instead reaches for a third biscuit. I take note that he hasn't touched the sandwiches; a surprising sweet tooth for someone so fit. I store this information away for later--so I might compile better shopping lists, I assure myself. Not remotely because I enjoy learning new things about him as well. 

Unable to shake my housekeeping impulses, I scan the tray to see if anything needs to be refreshed. I realise that I had better grab a biscuit now before Tom eats them all. Unfortunately, we both reach for the same one.

"Oh, sorry." I whip my hand out of the way, but not before the tips of his fingers brush over the back of it. The light touch is tickling-soft and it sends a thrill through my over-sensitive nerves. I'm not used to being touched. I clutch my hand to my chest, not thinking what the gesture could imply. 

His lips purse, and he picks up the biscuit and sets it on my saucer. "I won't kiss you again, Syd," he says. "You don't have to worry about that. I promise." 

I hadn't been thinking that he would. Not at the moment, anyway. But his words send my mind reeling to the moment in the foyer, when my anger got the better of me and Tom called my bluff. When he pressed his mouth hot against mine and, damn it all, I kissed him back with vigor. I dream about that kiss. I had done a good job thus far of not thinking about it while in his presence. Until now, that is. I stare hard at the biscuit on my saucer. 

"You are welcome to kiss me, however," he murmurs, as if reading my treasonous thoughts, and my racing heart stutters in my chest. 

I raise my gaze to his and all the innocence of the day is vanished. Gone is the bloke curious about how I tuck the sheets, coyly palming his pedometer and his excuse. In his place is a man whose intentions are plain and whose eyes are almost desperate in their intensity. 

I shift under the weight of his intent, moving only fractionally closer to him. He exaggeratedly counters my movement, bending at the waist and leaning much nearer to me, over the tea service. One of his hands braces against the coffee table, the other hovering in wait between his widely spread knees. As if ready to pull me against him, astride his lap in the hard, bright light of day, should I only give in. 

My eyes fall to his lips and he steals another few of the inches between us. He won't kiss me, no, but he will make it obscenely convenient for me to kiss him. I’m voraciously tempted. 

I draw in a shaky breath... and laugh. 

The sound is awkward and painfully forced, but for my sanity I make myself treat this as a joke he's told, rather than a standing invitation. I lean away from him, looking down as I unclench my hand from my chest, and he does not join in my laughter.

"I won't kiss you, either," I say, echoing his earlier oath. "You surely don't have to worry about that. I promise." I can’t look at his face as I say this. I’m afraid of what I might find there.

That kiss, and all that came before it, was lovely. But lovely pays no rent, makes no food, and satisfies no debts. This is what I must convince myself of if I’m ever to function around this temptation of a man.

At long last, I pick up the proffered biscuit and grin behind it as Tom snags the last one. 

"Gardening," he says as he refills his cup. His voice is stiff. "That's what I was doing this morning when you came in. And just before tea."

I chance a look up, and he's gazing out the back windows.

"The house came with this dilapidated old shed at the edge of the property, and I've been trying my hand at gardening. Right now all I'm doing is pulling what I hope are weeds, but it is oddly therapeutic."

He turns back to me. "I wasn't sure this was the house for me. It's more my mother's taste than my own, but the sad shed and neglected greenery convinced me to stay."

He twists a piece of his hair behind his ear, and my eyes follow the movement. "Have you got much of a green thumb?"

I shake my head, chuckling faintly. "No, not at all. I'm much too busy to keep green things alive, is my experience."

"See? That wasn't so hard." His eyebrows raise in triumph. "You are not a gardener. I know that now."

I smooth my skirt, not a little sore at his trick, and make to take the tray back to the kitchen to wash up. "I'm not many things, Tom,” I say before turning away. “Process of elimination might not be the best tactic."

It's only when I'm sitting on the bus on the way home that I realise my words were more invitation than rebuff.

\-----

“You look sick.”

Tilley’s words come to me through a garbled mouthful of food. For all the social niceties we’ve managed to enforce upon her, not talking with her mouth full never stuck.

“Craving a ciggy?” she jibes.

“Stop it, Tilley. Those aren’t nice words.” Andrew doesn’t look up from the worn paperback he has pressed open against the table. He’s dropped a bit of gravy on it.

“No, I’m quitting,” I say and push my now cold peas around on the plate.

“Oh, so you are sick. I remember how you were the last time you quit. And the time before that. And the time before--”

“Nice words,” Andrew warns again, looking up this time.

Knowing that pulling Andrew from his dinner book is serious business, Tilley turns apologetic eyes to me. “Sorry, Sydie.”

“It’s okay, Goose. I shouldn’t have started up again. You be hard on me all you want.” I spear a few of the peas and make it almost to my mouth with them before changing my mind.

“Are you sick?” Andrew asks. “You’re usually ravenous after your cleaning days.” He flips the open book over and turns his full attention on me.

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind today,” I say before taking an overly large bite of peas. They’re pretty gross cold.

“Well, Tilley has some good news,” Andrew offers, his eyes motioning to her.

“I had my appointment with Dr Harkness today,” she says, shoveling a large bite of roast into her mouth. “She said--”

Andrew cuts off the wet, gurgled words.“Tilley, that’s gross. Swallow your food first, we’ve talked about this. A lot.”

Tilley rolls her eyes and makes a very big show of chewing with her mouth closed, bouncing her head from side to side. Her hair is wild like mine, and she’s free to keep it loose. It sways with her head bobbing and falls into her eyes. Pushing it back with the palm of her hand, she nearly spits the next words from her mouth.

“She said I can get a job!”

I turn a confused look on Andrew. He leans forward, pressing fingers into the back of his overturned book, splaying the pages and breaking the worn spine further. I try to keep from wincing.

“She said, Tilley--” he looks hard at her, but she’s back to obnoxiously chewing her food, her nose scrunched, “--that it might be possible for you to start living a less supervised life. That included--”

“A job!” Tilley yells.

“Quiet words,” I say.

Andrew continues once Tilley settles. “That _could_ include a job.”

All of this information has come about very fast, and my head is swimming from it.

“A job?” I repeat.

“Well, of a sort. I’ve been keeping Dr Harkness updated on how Tilley is doing--” He frowns at me. “You don’t have to look so stricken, Syd.”

I try to make my face appear neutral, but panic is rising up my throat anyway.

“I’ve been doing good,” Tilley says, her tone under control and even. Only a little defensive.

“She has, and I’ve been letting Dr Harkness know. And after her appointment today, I think Harkness agrees that Tilley is ready to start living a less chaperoned life,” Andrew elaborates.

I worry my thumb between my first and middle finger, a nervous tick I developed the second time I quit smoking. I want to believe what Andrew is saying, fall under the spell of his calming tone of voice. I try to focus on what I know is true: Tilley’s growing control over the years and all the ways Andrew has changed our lives for the better.

But all I can see is the horrified looks on all those faces, the words of that awful phone call from the hospital.

“A job?” I say again, hating that I’ve latched on to this one phrase.

“I’m 25, Sydie. You had a job when you were 25!”

“We can talk about it,” Andrew reassures me. “There are options, and of course I would still be around. But this would give Tilley an opportunity to get out of the house even more, live a fuller life.”

The last words strike me hard in the chest. That’s all I want, for Tilley to be happy and healthy; it’s my every waking thought. It’s why I do so much. The idea that I’m not providing enough for her cripples me, whispers in my ear from across the pillow as I try to get a good night’s sleep.

“Right, of course.” I huff a feeble laugh and chew at my bottom lip. “What--what would you want to do, Tilley?”

“Build houses and bridges,” she answers immediately.

Andrew laughs at this. “We’ll see.” He turns to me, his face compassionate. “I know this is a lot all at one time. We’ll talk about it later, once you’ve had some time to think about it.” He smiles and pats my hand. I smile back but it’s forced, and I can’t sweep the worry out of my head.

“Who do you work for?” Tilley asks suddenly. Everything she says is sudden, and my muddled brain takes a beat to catch up. I had already decided how I would face this inevitable question.

“I can’t really say.”

I thought of lying, giving them some bogus last name and calling it a day, but it seemed like a lot of effort for a wrong that I didn’t commit. Lying about it made it worse than what it was.

“Why not?” Tilley takes my plate from beneath my hovering fork and replaces it with hers. It’s empty, but I really wasn’t hungry anyway.

I take Tilley’s finished plate and Andrew’s to the sink to start the washing up. I hoped Andrew had drifted back to his reading, but he watches me cross the small kitchen.

“Syd--” he warns.

“Well, I signed papers that say I can’t tell anyone who I work for, to protect their privacy,” I say, talking over Andrew’s inevitable insistence that he do the dishes. I don’t know why he is always so adamant about that. He’s only got one day off a week too, just like me. “I’m not really allowed to tell you. It’s against the rules.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I see that Tilley has gone back to finishing my dinner. She well understands the concept of following the rules, and my reasoning seems to satisfy her. But Andrew surprises me.

“But you told us about Mr Benson. Didn’t you sign something with him?” he says.

I look over at him, and his face is anything but innocent. He quirks a smile at me, trying to be cute. I hate that I’ve decided to tell the whole truth.

“Yes,” I bite out, “I did. But Mr Benson was different.”

“How?” Tilley asks, half-interested again.

If I say that my new client is famous, it’ll be all over. There’ll be no keeping it from Tilley; I would have to tell her. And with this latest idea of her spending even more time out and among strange, new people, there’s simply no guarantee that she wouldn’t let it slip to someone.

“He just is,” I say, feeling cornered, and Andrew swoops in to my rescue.

“It’s almost time for Dr Who, Tills.”

Her interest in the subject is suddenly sapped, and she’s out the open doorway to the den. She plops down on the floor in front of the telly, bringing up the guide menu. Relief washes over me.

“I don’t like the new companion,” she whines, and I take her second cleaned plate to the sink.

“You didn’t like Capaldi, either, and now look at you!” Andrew teases. A familiar theme song muffles Tilley’s retort.

Andrew sidles up next to me at the sink, his attention waffling between Tilley’s illuminated face and my soapy hands.

“You’re just full of secrets, aren’t you?” He says after a time. I almost drop the cup I’m rinsing and I glare over at him.

“Mystery employer; mystery lover.”

“Just shut it, Andrew.” I say, just completely worn out.

He scoots closer to me, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I didn’t mean to put you in a tight spot. Honestly.”

I glance at him, his floppy hair not quite hiding the apologetic turn of his eyebrows.

“I’m not used to you not trusting me,” he says in a quiet voice. “After 7 years.”

I open my mouth to correct him, to defend myself, but he stops me.

“I get that you have to keep some things to yourself, but you wouldn’t tell me about the guy you’re seeing, and now you suddenly feel like following Lillian’s rules, and it just really hurts--”

“Tom Hiddleston,” I say quietly, before I can talk myself out of it.

“Wait, what?” Andrew says, his words a little louder.

I hope I don’t live to regret this. His voice was so sad, and I do trust him! I’ve trusted him with taking care of the most important person in my whole life for almost a decade. Surely I can trust him with this.

“I’m not saying it again,” I say more softly, hoping to bring his volume down, too.

“Tom Hiddleston? What about him?”

I glance over my shoulder towards the den. Tilley is sitting cross-legged and slack jawed, completely unaware. I turn back, my lips pinched, and I raise my eyebrows with purpose.

“Tom--” The word comes out in the rushed whisper. “Wait, is he your mystery employer or your mystery lover?”

“Stop saying ‘lover!’” I hiss. I shake wet hands at him, hoping to keep him quiet. Perhaps if I don’t actually say it out loud, I can’t be found guilty.

“Oh, he is your mystery lover!”

I turn away from him, banging still damp dishes into the cupboard. His volume rises with excitement.

“I’m right, aren’t I? He is, isn’t he?”

Tilley shushes us from the other room, and I clap my hand over Andrew’s big mouth. I wait for a few moments before removing it.

In a whisper again, he asks: “Then who’s your--”

I cut my eyes to him one last time, my mouth pinched, and that regret I was hoping not to feel is already crackling across my nerve endings.

His face is stunned.

“Oh. _Oh!_ ” His eyes widen. “Syd!”

“You see why I can’t say anything!” I spit, pushing Andrew over near the refrigerator so we might be out of line of sight of Tilley.

“Syd!” Andrew says again, furiously scratching at his scalp, frizzing his ginger hair until it could have sparked. “How-- _How?_ How long?”

His face is split in that goofy grin I hate, hate, hate. His eyes are dancing over my face as if he’s starstruck, by me of all people.

“Just that once, at that premier thing a few days ago,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “It just sort of--happened.”

“Did you know that he was your--”

“Fuck you, I didn’t!” I say too loudly, and Tilley shushes us again, more elaborately this time.

“Are you two still--”

“Don’t be dim, of course not,” I snap.

“I didn’t think you would, Syd, I’m just--I’m still not quite understanding.”

“I know, I know.” I squeeze my thumb again painfully. I need him gone and Tilley in bed so I can sneak out for a cigarette. My head is splitting from it. “Look, you can’t tell anyone, okay? You seriously can’t.”

Instantly the bewildered look is gone from his face, and he nods furiously. “I would never, Syd. I promise. I promise. You’d lose your job and Tilley--”

“You cannot tell Tilley. Especially.” I softly plant a fist into his sternum, then push hard, pinning him with my fiercest look. “I don’t know that she could keep her favorite villain secret.”

“I promise,” he says again, though this one seems to hurt him.

“I’ll tell you about it later, but right now I need to smoke and I can’t do that if you’re here.”

“You shouldn’t smoke,” he says, squeezing the fist I still have pressed into his chest.

“And that’s why I need you to go,” I say. I try grinning, and it isn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I feel cleaner, lighter, now that I’ve told Andrew. It also all feels so much more starkly real and colossal. Still, breathing is easier, and the warm smile that always sits in the corners of Andrew’s lips is back.

Once I finally shoo him out of the house, I join Tilley in the front of the telly, though the show coming to a close.

“I love you, Goose,” I say, and she shushes me for a third time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I missed my end of the month deadline (barely!) but here is the next chapter. Chapter 7 (and hopefully all the chapters after it) will come in a much more timely manner. I promise. Thank you for your continued patience. 
> 
> I had some special help on this chapter! Thanks to **obscuredandoffcourse** and **barack-obaema** on Tumblr for letting me pick your dancer brains and for really helping me be able to make it through this chapter. Any mistakes are my own. As always, a HUGE thank you to my loverly beta, [startraveller776](http://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776) for absolutely everything. Go read everything she has ever written; she’s a goddess.

Jules shoves a sloppily rolled fag between my lips as I press the mostly clean tea towel to my sliced thumb. I plop down on one of the overturned crates we keep in the alley for smoke-breaks and illicit gossip.

“Jules, I’m fine,” I mumble, the cigarette paper sticking to my lips. He lights his first, then holds the match to the end of mine. I’m afraid that the match will burn his thick, calloused fingers before I can get my cigarette to catch.

After several puffs, it finally does, and I take a deep draw. I billow the smoke out my nostrils as he pulls back from me.

“Better?” I ask, the fag still clamped between my taut lips.

“You haven’t broken a cup in fucking years,” he says with a laugh, shaking his head. “Never mind cutting yourself on it.”

I peek under the now ruined towel and see the bleeding has stopped enough for me to free up one of my hands. I pluck the cigarette out of my mouth and, pinching it between my thumb and first finger, point it accusingly at Jules.

“I told you I quit!”

I take another drag.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a real fucking champ; you’re really beating this; I’m so proud of your progress,” he says, bending to pick up some trash that’s been tossed short of the rubbish bins lined up in the narrow alley. “What made you start again, anyway? It obviously hasn’t calmed your nerves any.”

He waggles his own uncut thumb at me, teasing.

“Just stress at work,” I say half-heartedly, wanting to change the subject.

“Working you too hard, am I? That why you’re breaking all my mugs?”

I check my thumb again. It hurts like mad.

“Take it out of my pay,” I deadpan. Jules takes a smashed pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and hands me one. I light it off the dregs of the one hanging from my lips. I’m going to feel like hell later, chain smoking like this. Jules is a horrible enabler.

“Why so sore over a mug, anyway?” I ask.

“I don’t give a fuck about my mugs, love. You know that. I don’t care if you break every one of them. You’re just off, is all. That’s what concerns me.”

It was stupid. Really, it was. A chirping girl comes in, bubbling-excited over buying her tickets for a show. I’m not really even listening, and then she says his name. And I drop a mug. It smashes on the counter and in my gut reflex to try to save it, I slam my hand down on a particularly sharp shard of crockery.

Because some girl said his name. Because I panicked over Christ knows what.

"You tell me how many hours you want, Syd. I’ll give’m to you. I don’t want to be stressing—"

"It’s not you, Jules. Don’t be ridiculous," I snap, my patience worn thin.

"The studio, then?" he plows on, ignoring my testy tone. "I thought you only had a couple nights a week—"

"It’s my housekeeping job, and that’s all I’m saying on it." I flick my cigarette at him, intentionally aiming wide. He dramatically dodges out of the way and snuffs it with the toe of his boot. How he can stand wearing those Army issues outside the dead cold of winter, I’ll never understand. He throws the butt in the bin with our others.

I’ve been working for Tom for three weeks now, and I thought I’d gotten a handle on myself. Not that every day in that house isn’t a new adventure, but I thought I had gotten beyond the point of getting spooked whenever I hear his name. That I was desensitized to the whole ordeal.

Apparently not.

The ticket girl had looked with lip-curling disgust at my thumb that was gleefully gushing blood, and I just stared dumbly back at her. I was trying to determine if she had figured me out—if she could tell from my panic that I was in the employ of the actor of whom she was so fond. She of course had no idea, and I was stupidly bleeding on the stack of newly printed menus.

I take another drag on my cigarette, trying to push the embarrassing memory from my mind. I glance up, realising Jules has been looking at me with a sad turn to his eyes.

“I could talk to Lillian for you, let her know you’re having a time with it.”

Bless him. He stopped asking after my new situation a week earlier when I snapped at him to give it up over a tray of coffee filled mugs. I hadn’t broken any of those, but I gave my wrist a mighty burn when I sloshed some of the cups.

“You haven’t spoken to her in years and, as time hasn’t made her any pleasanter, believe me, you shouldn’t want to start now.” I haul myself off the crate and check my thumb one last time. “I’m fine.”

Jules pokes a finger hard into the skin between my eyebrows. “You tell me you’re fine one more time, I’ll fucking fire you.”  


I swat his hand away.

“Seriously, Syd.” His voice becomes grave, and the teasing smile has dropped from his face. “You know I’d do anything for you. Anything you need. You and Tilley, you’re…Well, you’re more than a girl who works in my restaurant.” His swarthy skin darkens at that. I hold back my smile at the blush creeping over the man who learned to swear while enlisted in the British Army.

“Actually,” I say, a dinner conversation from a few weeks ago replaying in my head. “There is something.”

“Name it.” He lights another cigarette and holds out the pack. I shake my head, fearing I’ll vomit if I smoke another.

“What would you say to hiring Tilley on for a few hours a week? You could put her on during my shifts so I could keep an eye on her.”

“Oh, I’m sure that wouldn’t be necessary,” he says, distracted as he attempts to push the nearly destroyed pack of fags into his shirt pocket. “Did she say she wanted to work here?”

“Well, not here precisely, but she said she wanted a job. It’s some scheme she and Andrew have come up with in order to turn me prematurely grey.”

Jules eyes me, and I instantly regret what I’ve said.

“That wasn’t fair…” I mumble. I know Tilley wants to get out of the house more often. I know she craves normality beyond the classes with her peers and trips to market with Andrew. I know, at least in theory, that having a job would be a beneficial addition to Tilley’s life and one she is capable to take on. The problem here is me.

“I just think… Having her here would be—”  _selfish, easier, not at all what Tilley wants,_ “—safer.”

Jules is silent for a spell, his lips pinched. “You talk to her. She’s welcome to come on whenever—”

“Thank you, Jules—”

“—but she’s better than this, and you know it,” he finishes, surprising me. “She’s better than working in a cafe just like you’re better than working in a cafe. Or as a maid. Or any of it. I love having you here, and I’ll love having Tilley here, if she wants it, but I’ll always think you’re settling for something easy when you and I both know what you are capable of.”

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but Jules is back inside, lit cigarette still dangling from his lips.

I stare at the closed door, too awash in the abruptness of his exit to be angry. I feel dazed, like the door smacked me in the forehead when he left.  _Settling?_ I’m not settling—

My phone pings from my apron pocket, and I only quickly glance at the message on the screen before pushing into the cafe.

**_Are we out of biscuits?_ **

I groan. Tilley _._

I type a short response with one hand, the other pulling flyaway hairs back from my hairline as I squat to stare into the small grimy mirror by the back door.

**_In the cupboard. Don’t text me when I’m at work._ **

I throw the phone back into my apron and take two hands to the tidying of my hair. The upset with the mug earlier and standing so long out of doors has me looking a bit crazed.

My phone pings again and I let out a rude sound as I fish it back out from my apron.

**_What cupboard? You aren’t at work._ **

It’s halfway through my biting return message that  _I am in fact at work and she knows it_ that I notice Tilley’s name isn’t attached to the number. My heart lurches as I see that it is an unknown number and as it dawns on me who might well be on the other end, I get another message.

**_What have you done with this kitchen??_ **

Tom. Why is this whole day just completely  _Tom?_

I compose myself before responding, embarrassed that I spoke to him so baldly.

**_We have some in the cupboard by the refrigerator._ **

He writes back, saying:  ** _I found those. Not very good._**

I smile at that, imagining his nose wrinkling at the bland taste when he much prefers chocolate.

**_I’ll get the chocolate ones you like on my next shopping trip. You’ll have them by tomorrow’s tea. :)_ **

I instantly regret the smiling addition. If the tone of the previous text had felt too personal before, now I felt as if I was being flirtatious.

I quickly type out  ** _Let me know if you require anything else_** before turning the sound off. I almost throw my phone back into my pocket before I think better of it and open my contacts.

“Syd, I need you out here!” Jules calls from the front.

I hit save as I jog back to work. I can’t very well have a number labeled, “Tom Hiddleston” in my phone.

“NOT TILLEY” will have to do.

I make it through the rest of the day without smashing another cup, though Jules goads me about it every five minutes or so. He makes me change my plaster on the way out the door and pulls me into a crushing hug as I sling on my purse.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but…take care of yourself, love.”

My heart clenches at this, at the careful tone of his voice. Jules is careful about very few things.

“I will.”

He nods, pulling a cigarette from his pocket-pack and following me out the front door of the cafe. “Heading home?”

I hold up a hand in refusal of the cigarette proffered, a small victory, and nod. “Only to grab my bag. I’m at the studio tonight.”

“I swear, Syd,” Jules mutters as I walk away. “You exhaust me.”  


—

“Brenda! Will you help me set up?”

The dance/art art studio (and Bingo hall on Thursdays) is bare save the splashes of paint on the floor and the easels propped along the far wall. After a quick check that none of the daubs of paint are still wet ( _that_ was a fun class) I pull the free-standing  _barres_ from the storage closet.  

“This is my punishment for showing up early,” Brenda replies in a dramatic huff.

The petite woman is one of my favorite students, though I would never say so. Loud and entertaining in a way that only Americans seem to accomplish, she is always quick to say exactly what she feels.

“You’d think you would learn after a year of showing up early,” I tease as she lifts the other end of the  _barre_.

“It’s an Army thing,” she replies. “That reminds me! We’re not going to Camp Zama after all. Trent told me this morning.”

We place the last  _barre_ , making two even rows for class.

“Is this good new or bad news?” I ask as I pull the also-paint-splattered-curtains back to reveal the mirror covered wall. 

“Oh, good for me! I much prefer you Brits assuming that I don’t speak English over the folks in Seoul who assumed I spoke Korean. Asia always assumes I’m a native, and I’m sure it would have been the same in Japan. But bad news for you. You’re stuck with my shitty turnout for however-long.”

“Your turnout isn’t shitty,” I say. It isn’t great, in truth, but no one comes to nine-in-the-evening, adults-only, “Beginners welcome!” ballet classes looking for greatness. My students are here for an escape, and I do love to give them that.

“Did you bring them?” Brenda asks in an excited whisper as the rest of the class begins to trickle in.

“Yes, I brought them. To the  _barre_ , ladies and gentlemen!” I call out to the class as I connect my iPod to the speaker system.

“Don’t think I’m going to let you conveniently ‘forget’ again,” Brenda warns. “You promised.”

I smile. “Yes, yes. To the  _barre._ ”

Brenda runs off to join the others, and I walk over to my duffel to change shoes. I had hoped that she’d have forgotten the promise I made some classes ago, but that’s obviously not the case.

“Let’s get started by rolling out our ankles. I’ll join in a moment, as Brenda is determined to keep me honest.”

I hear murmurs of excitement from behind me as I hunker down next to my bag. Trying to not make too much of a show of it, lest I exacerbate their excitement, I pull out my _pointe_ shoes. I will have to take things slowly, I’m so out of practice. But I promised Brenda and have been running through steps and combinations all day. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little excited, too.

The shoes are old, almost too old, if I was being honest, but the shank is intact enough. I might yell at my students for dancing on such worn shoes, but I decide myself wise enough to know when to stop if I need to. They feel familiar and foreign all at once, and I let that little thrill I haven’t experienced in so long course through me, arch to scalp.

Joining the class at one of the less crowded  _barres_ , I slowly rotate my left foot, then my right, loosening my ankles. “Don’t forget to roll out your necks,” I remind the class and follow suit.

Once our joints are warm, I walk to the front of the class.

“Let’s start out nice and slow with  _pliés_  in first. Arms in second for balance, then moving your arm slowly into first as you bend at the knee.” I demonstrate as I talk, making sure to go slow. “ _Tendu_  into a nice, wide second and repeat. The same in third, fourth, and fifth, then the other leg. Listen for the cues in the music! It will tell you when to move!” Using my remote, I play the soft piano music and make my rounds between the dancers.

The motley crew that makes up my evening class begin  the movements, and I make my way through them, voicing small adjustments as I go. Sometimes I will reach out to relax an arm (Maria tends to tense her hand into a claw when she concentrates) or to tuck under David’s hips again. All quiet adjustments, all gentle. All so different from the years of study I endured where students were mocked or made examples of, loudly and without censor.

Not here. These men and women face that loud, uncensored judgment  every day of their lives, whether at the hands of bosses or spouses or children, and their tired, slack faces are the product of it. They work so hard to impress me, to show me how well they can do, when all I really want them to show me is a moment when they are alight.  I live for their triumphs.

They eye my feet more closely as I demonstrate the series of  _tendus_ , the  _pointe_  shoes foreign and mysterious, but I jokingly call them back to attention. I go through the _tendu_ stretches with them, needing to get warm myself, and scan the room to keep their technique in check. As I work through our  _adagio_  combination, I realize their concentration is faltering as they are clearly waiting for the moment I might rise  _en pointe_ _._

“Okay,” I call out. “How about we really focus on this combination and a brief  _adagio_ at center, and I’ll end the class with a  _short_  demonstration. Will that satisfy all of you?” I say this with a smile and it’s met with enthusiastic sounds of approval.

“Not too short!” Brenda calls to a scattering of applause.

“We’ll see,” I answer. The attention of my dancers greatly improves after this bargain is set, and I work them through the  _adagio_  a little longer than I intend. The class has always been too short for what I want to accomplish, and my promise for a dance to finish the class truncates it even further. I suppose we’ll leave the deconstructing of the _pirouette_ for next class—something I’ve been excited to teach them. They do so well with the  _pique_  turns already.

I give the class several minutes for water and abs, if they like, as I warm up, iPod in hand. I scroll through different possibilities, ticking through combinations that have been seared into my brain. I hit upon one particular song, the song that was the muse for the routine I loved best.

I’m not sure I remember the whole of it, but I only promised a short demonstration. I can stop once my memory of the dance runs dry. It might not be exactly what the class has in mind for an  _en pointe_  choreography, but I suddenly ache with wanting to retrace the motions of this long-past love.

Once everyone has made their way back in, I hand the remote to Brenda and take my place in the middle of the floor. I feel the jitters of performing for a crowd, the excitement and rush I haven’t been afforded in a long time. I align myself, wishing I had worn something more fitting than the yoga trousers I have hitched up to my knees and this shabby leotard. But I wore a similar costume the last time I performed this piece—all I was missing was a scruffy plaid button down.

  
I nod to Brenda and she begins the track. It starts—sudden, loud, and percussive. I move my body into the hard, extreme balances, each pose held for longer than is comfortable. This catches their attention early, and I am acutely aware at how much more fit I had been when I last performed this. Holding my weak leg high in front of me while standing on the tips of my toes seemed such a trivial requirement back then, but now—oh! My body quakes with holding each pose steady. The music hits with one last punch and I draw my working leg up, up, up into  _attitude derriere_  and balance. There is a pulse of silence and the song moves into a plucky, subdued melody.

I move into an  _adagio_  not unlike the combination I have been teaching my students and suddenly, I fall into that trance of which many dancers are found guilty. I am no longer thinking of the lines my arms are creating, or of the constant mantra to tuck and lift and flow through the movements. Instead I am engulfed in the pulse of the music. My arms create lovely lines because the music is lovely. My turnout is perfect, and my hips are tucked, and each movement flows into the next because the music moves it to be so. I thought I would have forgotten the specifics of this routine, and maybe I have, but the coursing melody of the music pulls me into a place I don’t often visit and I don’t think at all.

The music pulses again and I land, flat-footed and flexed into the section that had won me both scorn and praise those years ago. This abrasive movement holds with the foundations of ballet—turnout and pointed feet and poise. But it is mingled dusky-sweet with the flex and contraction and folding of contemporary dance. I have never felt more wild than when I lose myself in these turns and falls and beats.

_Perhaps I have gone too long without dance,_ I muse myself as I wrap around my own body and then explode out. My old, worn shoes, my too-tight muscles and my less than solid core all become minor inconveniences as the music swells to its most boastful crescendo. I throw myself completely into it and the grimy studio with its paint-caked floors, the stress of wanting Tom so badly and having no choice but to abstain, the worry over Tilley, over Andrew, over every penny I shouldn’t have spent or could have saved just falls away from me like the wilted petals of the flower as I feel nothing but the fall of the latest note and the rise of the next.

And suddenly it is over. The music pounds its way to a triumphant finish and I can’t even think to offer a simple  _reverence_  to my class as I collapse to the floor.

“Holy show-off, Batman!” Brenda yells as she runs over to me. I only vaguely comprehend that the song has ended, that I have danced through the entirety of it, and that I am sitting on a particularly bruised bum as a result of this hypnosis.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asks as I peel my shoes off my sore feet, tender skin sticking to the satin and tearing in wet, stinging blisters that have long been absent from my weathered feet.

“Oh, you know,” I answer as someone hands me my opened water bottle. “Around.”

—

I can smell the piney scent of floor wax as I step through the mudroom door the next day.

_He’s joking, right?_

Quietly closing the door behind me, I drop my bag haphazardly on the floor and stoop to pick up the trainers all neatly lined up along the baseboard. I consider tying all the laces together in unforgivable knots, but decide to hide the things instead. I step carefully through to the kitchen and peek in to see that Tom’s not around before dumping the armful of shoes on the floor. The tiles smell of the lemongrass cleaner he mentioned being so fond of and I groan.

_The kitchen floors, too?_

I pull the cookbooks out of the under-counter bookshelves and cram his trainers into the shelves. Making quick work in case he catches me in the act, I shove the cookbooks back into place, effectively concealing his running shoes. I stand up, checking the hiding place.

The shelves are deep enough that it isn’t immediately obvious that the books are sitting a few inches closer to the edge. He’ll never find them there.

It didn’t take me long to reason out why Tom followed me so closely that first week I worked. It wasn’t out of paranoia that I would break something, nor was it to determine if I was cleaning to his standards. He was instead observing my style of clean so he might do it himself once I was out of the house.

Tom Hiddleston is doing my job for me.

Satisfied with my diabolical shoe-hiding, I jog back to the mudroom. I slam the door, announcing my arrival.

“Tom?”

I hear what sounds like the clatter of a mop-bucket and what is definitely a string of flustered curses.

“Er—you’re here early!” he calls, his voice echoing.

The foyer.

“Yeah, I thought popping in at six rather than seven might keep you from—”

I stop dead as I round the corner into the entryway, heart pounding at the sight. Kneeling on the floor, Tom is furiously trying to contain a river of mop water with his forearms. He is wet, he is shirtless, and he is—

“Is that my headband?” I ask.

His hand flies to the elastic band holding back his auburn curls, and he swears again as the suds make a break for it.

“Fuck.” He lunges forward, slapping his hands on floor in an ineffective barricade. “There was about one hundred percent of this you were not supposed to witness.”

I run to the mudroom and grab a clean stack of towels. Jogging back to the foyer, I kneel next to him, soaking  the hem of my uniform, and throw the towels at the wet. He shakes the water off his arms and joins me in scrubbing up the mess. I am stoically ignoring the fact that he is not wearing a shirt and am making a concentrated effort to avoid brushing up against his sweat-slicked skin.

“How long have you been at this?” I ask. I usually finish with the foyer when doing the floors, and if he’s done the kitchen as well, all before six in the morning, well—

“I was having trouble sleeping,” he mutters. He sits back on his heels and stares at the sodden lump of towels on the floor. “I usually have a hard time coming down after a performance.”

“Right.” I want to tell him he should read a bloody book instead of spilling a coat of polish on the floor so thick I’ll have to spend an hour buffing it up. At least it gives me something to do.

He pulls the elastic out of his hair and the curls fall in wet spirals on his forehead. I shouldn’t find it so attractive, especially with how obviously cross he is over being caught, but it’s something I haven’t been able to shake—this wanting of him. He runs his hands through his hair and turns his eyes on me. I look away.

“I’m sorry, Syd. I was only trying to—” He stops abruptly, gathering the towels from the pile on the floor and starts in the direction of the laundry.

“To what?” I ask, before I can stop myself. It’s the thing I haven’t been able to pry out of him: why he keeps cleaning his house before I have the chance. It’s frustrating and more than a little insulting. I fill my time with the most asinine of tasks. Hoovering the tops of the doors and the candles lining the mantlepiece. Washing the soap and lotion dispensers in the loos and running the air vents through the dishwasher. Today I was planning to descale all the taps and take a toothbrush to the detergent slots in the washing machine. If he thinks he is making my life easier, he is sorely mistaken.

I had to Google the thing about the washing machine.

Tom is gone, leaving my question unanswered.

I’m still buffing the floor when he appears an hour later, fully dressed and dry.

“I really made a mess of that, didn’t I?” he says, his face pained.

“I don’t mind,” I answer, and truthfully, I don’t. The only really horrible part about buffing up an obnoxious layer of floor polish is the ample time I am given to think on how he looked when I found him. “You can keep my headband, by the way. If you want.”

He throws his head back, hands covering his face.

“Oh God, Syd. Don’t.” He laughs weakly behind his hands.

“Oh, now, it wasn’t so bad. I thought you looked like a tennis player.”

He peeks from behind his hands, a ridiculous grin on his face. This sends a thrill through me more than finding him shirtless and on his knees. I turn my attention back to the floor, scrubbing harder than necessary.

“I’ll be out for the rest of the day,” he says. I feel a strange mix of glee and disappointment that I’ll have him out of my hair. It will be nice to finally feel like I can accomplish the job I was hired to do, though I will admit that I have grown oddly accustomed to having Tom around so much. Navigating the unique obstacle course his constant meddling in the housework has created has been a challenge, but not an entirely unenjoyable one. Finding little ways to get my revenge, like the hiding of his trainers, while not wholly professional is immensely gratifying.

“No tea today, then?” I ask, as he turns to go.

He flashes me a wicked smile before answering. “Oh, no. I’ll be back in time for tea.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. It was a tough one to write, but I’m really happy with it! I’d love to know what you think! Thanks be to my beta, [startraveller776](http://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776), for all of her help!
> 
> *Fair warning: things are heating up with my thesis, so I don’t know when the next update will come. I hope this keeps you held over for the time being!

 

Having Tom out of the house is indeed a strange but productive experience. After returning from a quick trip to market (three boxes of chocolate biscuits in tow) I set about a normal, interruption-free day of cleaning--something Tom has made impossible to accomplish in some weeks. I even loop my iPod into the BlueTooth sound system that runs throughout the house for an added treat. Being left to my own devices will make for a pleasant day, though it is unfortunate that I won’t escape tea as well. Ever since coaxing that small tidbit from me--my lack of gardening expertise--he has made tea into a game of sorts. Always coyly trying to persuade another revealing truth from me. He offers no such recompense.

 

I don’t know why Tom has begun his vigilante housekeeping routine, and I frankly don’t care to think too deeply on it. I first noticed his peculiar form of mischief my third day back in the house, when he had made the bed to my exact specifications. I didn’t think this too odd, but the following week I walked into my day’s planned chores already completed.

 

When lame excuse after lame excuse of being “a naturally neat person” or “he just felt like tidying up” became his defense whenever I confronted him about this, I decided to simply fight back. I find new and interesting spaces to clean and, more recently, exact my revenge in rearranging stuff. I don’t touch the important things, like his cluttered desk upstairs, but the kitchen saw a complete reorganisation and all his toiletries recently migrated to the other side of the loo.

 

I realise I am treading in dangerous territory, playing with him like this. I know, in the logical part of my mind, that I should stop, that I should separate myself from him and his antics, but even when I had the company of lovely old Mr Benson, I never enjoyed a day of work like I do the days in Tom’s house.

 

“Enjoy” might be too strong a word. But navigating the odyssey that is the sunny house on Steele’s Road and its meddling owner is indeed...stimulating.

 

The day flows nicely with my music and an empty house. I hum along at times and clean to a rhythm so different than what is my usual. Down in the great room, cleaning the windows, I stretch and bend in way that is almost dancing and the joy of the previous night sweeps over me.

 

It feels wonderful, even with my obscenely sore muscles and tender feet.

 

The dance from last night was also wonderful. I felt so deliciously alive. It felt like being released from a cage, though my life is nothing so maudlin as that. I dance at least twice a week, with my classes, so why a short (or not so short) demonstration of a routine _en pointe_ would act as such a release, I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps it was the thrill of performance which, beyond my recently acquired audience-of-one when dusting the tops of the picture frames, is an aspect of my life that has long been missing. Or the liberation of dancing one’s own choreography, without fear of judgment or scrutiny. My dear class didn’t see how too-tall I stood in the middle of that floor, or how dark my skin would look in contrast to those other lily-fair dancers that made up my peers so long ago. 

 

The memory of such exhilaration raises the hair on my arms in gooseflesh, and I close my eyes--not particularly helpful when washing windows. I set my feet in a comfortable second and dip into a shallow _plié._ The song piping through the discreet speakers changes to another favorite of mine, one with a slow but punishing build and a vocalist whose voice is raw around the edges with the emotion of the verses. I breathe into the music and I sink slowly into a much deeper _plié,_ softly groaning at the stretch of my muscles. The song moves me quickly along and I lift my arms to an elongating fifth. The music soars to a new high, and I open my eyes only long enough to take a sweeping step out into the room and, windows forgotten, rag dangling from my right hand, dance as well as my stiff Keds will allow.

 

The _allegro_ I begin with slowly devolves into another amalgamation of ballet and contemporary as I alternate between the long lines of discipline and the contraction of freer expression. My teachers always hated my love for flat-footed contemporary. They were probably glad to see me go. 

 

I open my eyes as I throw back my head, soaking in the midafternoon sun dripping from the white, white ceiling. The music--w _hen had it gotten so loud?--_ is crashing all around me and I laugh as I wrap my body into easy turns. I never want the song to end when suddenly, quite abruptly, it does.

 

I snap my head down, looking to where I laid my iPod, and I see that it is no longer there.

 

The sound of slow clapping rings through the echoing space of the room, startling me, and I whirl around. Standing there, pulling my iPod out of his shirt pocket, is Tom.

 

His smile is somewhere between smug and appreciative, though  the slow folding of his arms lend his look more in favor of smug.

 

He saw me dancing. The crippling punch of embarrassment socks me squarely in the sternum.

 

I can’t calm my panting breaths and my voice is shaking as I say, “Tom! You’re--you’re back early!”

 

He glances at the impressive watch at his wrist before answering, “Not so early, darling.”

 

I take a quick peek at my own watch and cringe. Indeed it isn’t. The day had truly gotten away from me. Had I been dancing for longer than just the one song?

 

I look hesitantly back at Tom and wonder if my gaze was as self-satisfied as his when I had caught him red-handed in a similarly compromising position. Only, he hadn’t been caught dancing like a deranged headcase in the middle of his workday. My chest aches with jagged shame. _Would he tell Lillian?_

 

“I’ve met her,” he says.

 

“W--what?” My voice is small and squeaking. I feel pinned to the spot, my arms hanging awkwardly in the space around me. My thoughts ricochet loudly around my head like the ice in a martini shaker. _Met who? Why did he have to come home?_

 

_I’m never dancing again._

 

“Florence Welch. The woman who was singing.”

 

“Oh?” I finally manage to bring my arms down to my sides. My hands touch bare thigh and I frantically pull down my rucked-up skirt.

 

“Lovely woman, odd but interesting.” That irritating smile is still on his face as he begins to scroll lazily through my iPod. 

 

“Ah,” is all I can manage, my heart still pounding. He’s not saying anything about catching me dancing with humiliating abandon. He’s not moving, not making any attempt to ease the boulder-heavy tension of the room. When he had spilled the bucket of polish, I at least had the decency to help him, my teasing of him wearing my hair elastic notwithstanding.

 

His eyes move away from my iPod and he peruses my tense body, not entirely lecherous, but more so pleased with something. A puzzle solved, perhaps. Any residual enjoyment of his presence is wicked from me in his slow study of my anguish.

 

When his eyes reach mine again, his gaze has softened. “She’s quite like you, actually.” He takes a step toward me and I back away, though we have the whole room between us. “Odd but...interesting.” His eyes whisper “lovely,” and I make a break for it.

 

“I’ll start the tea, then.”

 

I give him a wide berth as I half sprint to the kitchen and he calls to my back, “Where did you learn to do that?” I can hear the smile in his voice.

 

“Do what?” I say stupidly, gathering the makings for his (now late) tea with clumsy hands.

 

“The dancing, Sydney.”

 

_Sydney._ He hasn’t called me that since…

 

I use the lame answer I had given my class the night before. “Oh, around.”

 

“‘Around’, where?” He’s followed me into the kitchen. “Anyone who can…God! Like you were. Where did you learn to move so beautifully?”

 

“Nowhere, Tom,” is my testy answer. I don’t need him thinking my dancing is beautiful. I don’t need this interest.

 

“If you don’t tell me, I can just look it up. You’re bound to be documented as a stunning ballet dancer somewhere,” he says, and my panic stabs anew.

 

I turn to see him pulling out his mobile, and I close the short distance between us.

 

“No, Tom, don’t!”

 

He pulls the phone out of my reach, far over his head, but I’m about as long as he is and my fingers brush the base of his palm. We’re in closer quarters than we’ve been in weeks though I can’t make my professionalism overpower my dread. He’s laughing as the tears prick in my eyes.

 

Suddenly, he stops, backing away a half step and pocketing his phone. “Syd, what’s the matter?”

 

“Please, Tom.” Oh, I hate that my voice sounds wet like crying. I hate my treasonous tear ducts and my overwrought anxiety. “Please don’t google me. Please.”

 

“Of course, of course!” The mirth is gone from his voice and he sounds almost as upset as me. “Syd, what’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing.” I turn back to the sink, roughly scrubbing the tears standing in my eyes with a towel. “Just please don’t look me up. I swear I’m not a criminal, or a stripper, and anything of the sort. I just--”

 

“Syd.”

 

“Just go on. Let me finish tea.” It’s like I’m scolding a child rather than talking to my employer. It’s brazen and dangerous, and if I don’t calm down I’m going to lose my fucking job. “Please.”

 

I turn and the look of utter concern on his face knocks me nearly breathless. His face is always so animated, a good quality in an actor, but I can never get used to how readily his expressions show his feelings.

 

May his acting prowess save him should he ever find an interest in poker.

 

He leaves, and I concentrate on the task at hand. Perhaps I can make a brew good enough to have him forget this whole ordeal. I spoon in just enough of the tea I bought fresh at market this morning for a good, strong brew. The decadent scent of bergamot billows up to me as I pour in the boiling water, and I watch the dried purple blossoms unfold in fragrant, drowsy blooms as I settle the lid on the Brown Betty. Tom requested I continue to use it, however out of place it looks with the rest of the fussy tea service.

 

Tea will fix this. Tea will erase my outburst and overreactions. Tea will blot out the image of me, twirling around his great room with my skirt up to my thighs from his mind. Tea will dampen his urge to search my name, to dig deeper than I can consent. I repeat this silent prayer on loop, hoping we are both English enough for tea to mollify us.

 

If I only I had larger cups.

 

When I enter with the tray, he is seated stiffly on the new settee. The house has slowly been shifting its interior design style, and absolutely for the better. I was nervous that Tom might fill the airy house with too priggish of pieces to make up for the clinical tedium that the first stylist had instated. Instead, the new pieces, which always seem to show up on my off-days, strike perfectly between masculine and feminine, and lend themselves well to the breezy and comfortable air of the architecture of the house. This great room could be a solarium for all its natural light, and the newest furniture, with its sunny colored wood and light fabrics, compliment this quality.

 

The stormy look on Tom’s face, however, does not. 

 

I set the tray down and Tom doesn’t make to pour out. _Shit._ I prepare his cup first, careful to add just enough milk. I had it over to him and his silence as he takes it is an almost tangible thing. He takes a serious sip and though he does not vocalise his approval, the bliss is written in the creases of his furrowed brow.

 

 

I prepare my own cup and offer what I hope will satiate his curiosity.

 

“I studied with The Royal Ballet School until I was eighteen.”

 

He winces. “Syd, you don’t have to--”

 

“I left before third year. That’s what the internet would tell you.” And this isn’t a lie, as far as my dancing is concerned. It’s the other things he might find, were he to look a little harder, that I am afraid of.

 

He nods his head, looking into his poised cup, before the meaning behind my words strike him.

 

“Wait, _The_ Royal Ballet School? Like, _The Royal Ballet_?”

 

I’m looking into my tea, now. “That would be the one, yes.”

 

“Syd, are you serious? That’s--that’s really…” He sputters and sets down his tea. He smoothes his hands down his thighs before continuing.

 

“Why did you leave? You’re-- God, you’re so talented.”

 

I wish my teacup were large enough for me to dive right in and escape this whole conversation.

 

“My flailing about in my Keds and uniform is hardly what I would call talent.”

 

“And I’d hardly call it flailing.” His voice becomes serious. “You were breathtaking, Sydney.”

 

_Stop it, stop it, stop it._

 

“Why aren’t you still dancing?” he asks.

 

“I still dance!” I say, though I want nothing more than for the discussion to end. “I teach a class for adults a few times a week.”

 

“On top of your days here?” He sounds bewildered.

 

_Oh, you have no idea._   


 

He continues when I don’t answer. “You know what I mean. You said that you left before third year. Why?” His voice grows more somber. “Were you hurt?”

 

“Oh, go on.” Thank goodness Lillian doesn’t spy on her girls. She would die at how familiar I was being with Tom. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there is no tragic story behind why I left.”

 

“I didn’t mean to imply--”

 

“Yes, you did!” I’m aware that I need to reel myself in; I’m aware that I am not speaking with him like I should.  But I can’t make the words stop. I can’t seem to do anything I ought around him. “Every afternoon, every tea--you try to wheedle some seed of who else I could possibly be-- if I’m a gardener or a baker or a candlestick maker--”

 

“Now hold on--”

 

“What if I’m not? What if I am just a housekeeper, simple as that? Would that be so horrible?”

 

“You just told me that you aren’t ‘just a housekeeper’!”

 

I quite indelicately set down my teacup and stand, needing some space from all this, needing to clear my head. “No, I told you that, once upon a time, I attended a ballet school--”

 

“Not just any ballet school--”

 

“--A ballet school _of some merit._ No why, or how, or to what end. That was almost ten years ago, Tom. What were you doing ten years ago?”

 

“ _Acting._ ” He stands also and makes in my direction.  
  


“Well, bully for you, then.” I take a calming breath before continuing. “I’m not some puzzle for you to reason out. I make an honest day’s wage cleaning houses--” _or I did before_ he _came along_ “--and  that’s all there is to it. Is that so unbelievable to you?” For once, he is silent, and I barrel on through. “What is so awful that you can’t seem to believe that this is all I am?”

 

I stop, realising suddenly that I don’t want to know the answer. I don’t want to think that him fancying a housekeeper--and I know he fancies me, in some fucked-up capacity--would be so terrible a fate. I feel sick to my stomach, the awful realisation flaying my emotions raw anyway.

 

I chance a glance at him, and he looks furious. The hinges of his jaw are fluttering beneath his stubbled skin. When he does speak, his voice is slow and exacting.

 

“There is nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with cleaning houses. Working as diligently as you do is daily proof of this.” He takes a long, hard breath in through his nose, his jaw flexing all the more. “But as long as you continue to imply that this honorable job you do is less than, I will continue to believe that you do, in fact, know better. You know something I do not about where your capabilities lie; your shame speaks this loud and clear. And I’ll continue to look for it--” he speaks quickly at my move to object, “--not on Google, mind--but where you’ll let me see.”

 

This socks me squarely in the throat, a tender lump that is difficult to swallow around. First Jules implying that I am settling for things beneath me, and now Tom, who knows nothing about me, calling me ashamed? I move my hand to tug at my hair, forgetting that it is pulled tightly back. “For godssake, why? Why is it so important to you?”

 

He surprises me then with a small laugh, almost embarrassed. His eyes, however, look sad. “Don’t you know?”

 

Before I can develop suitable panic at his words, the chirping ring of his mobile breaks the moment. I dash for the tea service and carry it haphazardly into the kitchen, leaving him to his phone call.

 

I lament the waste of what was a truly enjoyable brew as I pour the now cold and over-steeped tea down the drain. Perhaps I will make him a single cup before I leave, an apology for the maelstrom that was this afternoon. I refill the electric kettle as I continue the washing up, ignoring the shaking of my hands.

 

A few minutes later, as I’m wiping down the counters in preparation to leave, I hear him softly clear his throat from behind me. The switch flips on the kettle and I pour the boiling water into his tea mug.

 

“I’m not as good at just a cuppa as I am at a proper pot,” I say as I set it on the counter nearest him.

 

“You didn’t have to do that.”

 

I resist the urge to mutter something along the lines of ‘It’s my job’ and go to retrieve my purse instead. I’m still a little sore at him for what he said earlier.

 

“I do wish you would tell me why you left The Royal Ballet School,” he says once I’ve turned my back.

 

I don’t know whether to bite back the inclination to scoff or to laugh, so I do neither and pull the elastic out of my hair instead. This small ritual of letting down my hair is usually something I save for the bus ride home, but damned if I don’t need some small comfort right now.

 

I won’t ask why he wants to know. That’s dangerous.

 

Telling him it’s none of his bleeding business, while true, seems a falsehood in light of the company we’ve shared. It _should_ be none of his business. I _should_ feel no inclination to tell this man anything. We _should_ be pleasant strangers at best. There are a great many things that _should be_ , and our strange and fragile connection does not appear on that list.

 

And, to think, I usually follow lists so well.

 

“There were certain...physical realities about me that just didn’t make ballet a very lucrative career,” I say, deciding to string along the inevitability of this conversation as short a time as possible.

 

He looks utterly shocked at my revelation, and he trips over his words. “Surely--surely it wasn’t--”

 

I give a weak smile at his outrage. “Not that, no. Not entirely, anyway. There are plenty--well, not plenty. Enough. There are enough black dancers working that it shouldn’t cause too much of an outcry were I to grace the stage.”

 

“What then? What could possibly stop you from making a name for yourself when you move so beautifully?”

 

I consider asking how long he was standing there, watching me dance. Most likely longer than I would be comfortable with, as he’d apparently gotten an eyeful of not only my exposed legs, but also my technique.

 

“I’m far too tall,” I say, simply.

 

He looks puzzled, as if the idea had never occurred to him. “Aren’t dancers usually tall?”

 

“Not this tall.”

 

He shakes his head. “You aren’t that tall.”

 

I do scoff at that. “I’m almost as tall as you!”

 

“But--”

 

“And you’re rather tall, on average. And--”

 

I walk up to him, feeling surprisingly at ease, tired almost. Resigned to not being able to keep much from Tom, even knowing that it is doing nothing to distance us from that intimacy we shared some weeks ago. It is probably this jaded acceptance that colours my actions.

 

“--and I’m standing here flat-footed.”

 

I reach out and place my hands on his shoulders, surprising us both. Somewhere in the cringe -inducing land between first and second position, I slowly roll through my foot, rising to a sedate _demi pointe_. It is quite difficult in the stiffness of my Keds, though I decide my feet are strong enough to resist injury against the rubber soles of my shoes. Without pausing, I flex my foot until I am standing _en pointe,_ the sensation strange in my trainers. The stiff heels of the shoes are digging into my calcaneal tendons and standing _en pointe_ without the security of my _pointe_ shoes’ wooden box is an unpleasant experience. I hadn’t realised I had been watching the progress of my feet (and watching for their safety) until I glance back up, meeting Tom’s eyes for the first time since I’d touched him.

 

We are standing much closer together than I had originally thought.

 

He’s looking up at me, for I stand a few inches taller than him now. His lips are parted and he is looking at me in a way that reduces my breath to shallow, cautious sips.

 

He moves his hands as if to place them at my waist, like we were at an overly chaperoned school dance. He never touches me, perhaps too taken at our sudden proximity, and his hands waver in the negative space at my waist, tracing the lines made by my body in unconsummated caresses.  


 

He’s promised not to kiss me again, but standing so close to him, his eyes filled with such wonder as I tower over him for a change, I am sorely tempted to break my oath to also abstain.

 

“You see?” My voice is a small, brittle thing. “I’m taller than even you, all the way up here. I am a ruiner of all choreographers’ lines.”

 

A breath whispers out of him. “Brilliant,” he says, appearing to not have heard me at all.

 

I ease slowly down, and step away the instant my heels make contact with the tiled floor. I set about retrieving my purse for a final time, trying to shake the look in his eyes from my mind.

 

“I’d been allowed to stay because--” I stop. _Steady, girl._ “I’d been allowed to stay, but after my last growth spurt, it just wasn’t a possibility for me anymore.”

 

When I turn back, he looks dazed.

 

“W-what?”

 

“Ballet. The company. They would have never hired a behemoth like me.”

 

He wipes a hand over his mouth, scrubbing at the almost beard at his jaw.

 

“They’re fucking idiots, then,” he says, his voice distracted and soft.

 

“Ta,” is all I mutter before bolting out the door.

 

 ------

 

That night, after begging off a nightcap (again) with Andrew and promising to finally talk with him tomorrow about any and all things Tom (also again), I climb into my bed with more reverence for its ample softness than I have in a long time. It’s too large for the room and ridiculously out of style, but the cushy mattress never fails to lovingly cradle all my aching joints and points in a comfortable hug until morning.

 

At the end of a day like this, my body still sore from dance class, I could wax poetic about my ancient mattress for hours. Or at least until I fell asleep, which is probably close in coming.  I rub my temples, trying to rid the images of the many faces Tom showed me today: smug appreciation, hurt, surprise, anger, and, most perilous, desire. Tom’s troublesome ghost tends to find his way into my bed most nights, but his presence is too much tonight. I don’t want him there.

 

Trying instead to remember the lyrics to “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” and making a fair play for drifting off to sleep, I am startled by the buzzing of my mobile on the side table. “NOT TILLEY” glares at me from the too-bright screen, and I steel myself for what follows, fearing the inevitable backlash of the afternoon.

 

**_Where did you hide my trainers??_ **

 

I groan loudly and kick my feet in a small tantrum under my covers. I’m so tired, and the frustration of thinking this late night text both adorable and infuriating is simply overwhelming. 

 

I type a quick response and practically throw the phone back onto the table.

 

**_I don’t accept business texts after 10pm._ **

 

Hoping this will shut him up, I flop over onto my stomach and bury my head under the pillow. Minutes pass and even the endless ramblings of Billy Joel can’t lull me back to sleep. Just as I have almost convinced myself to text him back with an apology for being abrupt, I hear vibration of the phone, muffled by the pillow over my head.

 

**_My housekeeper hid my shoes._ **

 

Grinding back a grin and a stupid, girlish giggle, I turn off my phone and set the alarm on my disused digital clock for the first time in years.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG It’s back! Thank you all for your patience in waiting for this update. I do hope it was worth the wait! And worry not, I’ve already started on chapter 9. I hope to never make you wait this long again.
> 
> Thanks be to my beta, [startraveller776](http://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776), for not only making this a better chapter but for also making me a better writer.

_**Going to market.** _

 

I send the text off to Tom as I ascend the steps of the tube station. Today is not my usual shopping day, but I need to think. Most people I’ve talked to say they do their best thinking in the shower--one of my past instructors used to do all of her choreographing in the shower, though I always worried she’d end up concussed due to a tragic slip. Andrew bakes when he has some serious thoughts to ponder, and Tilley, of course, builds. But the mindless monotony of lists and grocery aisles is the perfect ambient backdrop for when I need to reason something out.

 

And given the general weirdness of the last few days--and the fact that I can’t fit another bag of potatoes into my cupboard at home--doing my weekly shopping for Tom will have to come early.

 

I’m struck by the heady bouquet of of a dozen different food stalls. The dense, loamy aroma of the ethiopian stall tempting me to an early lunch, intermingling with the sweet scent of the gourmet pancake stand, which has me considering a second breakfast. I don’t usually come to the Camden Lock for anything, especially not for anything Tom-related. Handmade jewelry dangles from colourful awnings, mutely twinkling in the diffused light of the overcast morning. Specialty shops hawking everything from hand pressed soap to brightly painted religious iconography huddle together on the narrow strip. The kaleidoscopic array of oddities and sumptuous selection of street food create a patchwork of retail bliss, if I ever had the money to indulge. Not at all the place to buy your weekly tin of biscuits or bunches of leeks. But I decided to stop here first.

 

While unbearable on the weekends, The Lock is just the perfect amount of crowded on this Monday, and I need the push of endless people and the white-noise their excited chatter brings, if only for a half-hour. A quick glance at the incoming message from Tom only reinforces this need for alone-time among the masses.

 

_**Are we out of something?** _

 

I thrust my phone to the bottom of my purse. I make a determined line toward the tea stand I am pretending I came here specifically to visit, and the conversation I had night before ricochets in my skull.

 

I had finally taken Andrew up on his standing invitation for a curry from the shop downstairs. It was painfully obvious that I had been avoiding him ever since cluing him in on my current work situation which, to my embarrassment, was over two months ago. I wasn't upset that I told him, nor did I think that he'd wheedled it out of me; it was an honest relief to have said it out loud. But Andrew was one of my closest friends, and I couldn't lie to him were he to ask the right, or rather, the wrong questions.

 

“Go on, then,” he said, taking a long pull from his frothy pint glass.

 

“Go on, what?”

 

“Syd, I’ve been practically living in your house for over seven years. I don’t give a shit about how the tube was this morning or whether you think Pippa’s up the duff.” His tone was teasing, light.

 

I swirled my finger through the considerable head of my beer, watching the fine bubbles expand and release under my touch, leaving shallow tracks as evidence of my silence.

 

His voice was gentler with his next words. “Talk to me about Tom.”

 

“Well, what do you want to know?” I said with a sigh.

 

“It’s not what I want to know.” He gave me a small grin. “It’s what you want to say. I’m guessing that you’ve not told anyone.”

 

“You don’t know that. I might have.”

 

“Who’d you tell? Jules? The man who can’t keep a secret longer than he can keep a pack of fags? Or Lillian? Suppose she was thrilled.”

 

He was right about my not having told Jules. Though happily divorced, his ex, Mary, still worked as the pastry chef at the cafe. He told her just about everything, strange friends that they were post-marriage. For reasons beyond me, she was still great friends with her ex-sister-in-law, so me telling anything to Jules would be just the same as going straight to Lillian with my dirty laundry. I’d been carrying this around quietly for a while.

 

“Aren’t you just dying?” Andrew prompted again. “Spill.”

 

“Kebab, luv?”

 

I’m startled from my thoughts by the voice coming from the vicinity of my elbow. I look down to see the shiny brown head of a man nearly two feet shorter than me. I have apparently wandered from my path to the tea shop and have been staring blankly at the menu of the kebab stall.

 

“Um, no, sorry.”

 

Not ready to rush to the tea stand, thus concluding this impromptu addition to my shopping routine, I wander off through the doorway of a gothic clothing store, knowing full well that I’ll not find anything useful within. It is the perfect backdrop for dissecting the rest of my conversation with Andrew.

 

I stalled through half of my glass of beer before finally talking to Andrew about my two months as Tom Hiddleston’s housekeeper. He didn’t ask about the night at the hotel, bless him, but instead wanted to know how I was doing in my day to day. He sat quietly for the most part, but he came alive when I told him of Tom’s afternoon game of twenty-one questions.

 

“So he just grills you over tea every day?”

 

“He doesn’t grill me!” Andrew’s mouth quirked into a knowing smile at my defensive tone. “He’s just...trying to figure me out. Or something. I don’t really know why.” The lie sounded lame even to my ears.

 

“One guess,” Andrew said, but I didn’t rise to meet his challenge. It was safer to play dumb about Tom’s intentions; it hurt less.

 

“What’s he know, then?” he prompted.

 

I snapped back to attention, taking a moment before answering. “Oh, not much. I reasoned out what he was trying to do early on, so I’m pretty good at just giving him half-answers.”

 

“Does he know about Tilley?”

 

I studied my ever-dwindling beer at that. “Well, yeah. But that was something I--that he… He already knew about Tilley. From before.”

 

“Before?”

 

“Before...I worked for him.”

 

Andrew let that drop. “Does he know about your mum? About the whole story with Tilley? And me?”

 

“How long do you think our afternoon tea actually is?” I deflected.

 

“Syd.”

 

“I told you. Half answers. Sometimes no answers.” I drain my glass before continuing, “He doesn’t know about my mum.”

 

“What does he know, then? Perhaps that’s a shorter list.”

 

“It is,” I agree. “Um, he knows I don’t garden.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing. It’s… Anyway. He knows I’m from London, that I have a sister, I like tea, I don’t like coffee, I enjoy reading. Stupid little stuff.”

 

“It takes him a whole pot of tea to figure this stuff out?”

 

Andrew’s incredulous look had me thinking. About when a dispenser of peony scented soap showed up in the kitchen next to his preferred lemongrass scent after I’d told him my favourite flower. And the sunny yellow fabrics of the great room furniture that appeared only days after my admission of my favourite colour. I considered telling him that Tom had also caught me dancing, but the humiliating burn of that encounter, and the awkward tableau after in the kitchen, was still too fresh.

 

“I got a whole week out of discussing different translations of Lysistrata,” I offered. “He even lent me a new translation out of America I hadn’t read yet.”

 

Andrew’s eyebrows rose at that. “Yeah?”

 

“It was tricky, though. Stuff like that leads to questions about school and I didn’t really want to--”

 

“Why don’t you want to tell him about you? About your past?” Andrew cut in.

 

I looked at him as if he’d sprouted a third eye. “Why do you think, Andrew?”

 

“Because it’s inappropriate? Because he’s your boss?”

 

I nodded vigorously. “Yes, exactly--”

 

“Or because you fancy him?” he interjects. “And he very obviously fancies you? And that’s all just too good for you and your hitherto tortured existence?”

 

_Ouch._

 

His words were cheeky but his face was creased with sympathy and concern. I opened my mouth to speak and he laid a hand on the table, stopping me. “That was nasty; I’m sorry. I just don’t really see the problem here.”

 

“Don’t see the problem?” I was dumbfounded.

 

“Of telling the bloke you fancy about your life? No.”

 

“He’s not ‘the bloke I fancy,’ he’s--”

 

“Your boss, yeah, we’ve covered this.” He sighed into the dregs of his glass. “I just think you’re making this unnecessarily hard for yourself.”

 

I was about to reply when my mobile buzzed on the table between us. Automatically, we both looked at the lighted screen. “NOT TILLEY” flashed and I grabbed the phone before Andrew could see it.

 

“‘Not Tilley?’”

 

_Damn._

 

“It’s a long story.”

 

“Is that him? Syd…”

 

I began to tuck the phone into my purse when I thought better of it. “Yeah, it’s him. But it’s just business!” I added quickly at Andrew’s satisfied grin. “‘ ** _Out of TP_** ,’ that sort of thing.”

 

“Mmmhmm.”

 

“Look for yourself if you don’t believe me!” I said, thrusting the phone at him.

 

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

 

I regretted my rash offer as he began scrolling up through the log of messages. I thought everything was professional, but what if he didn’t see it as such? Had we talked about anything we shouldn’t?

 

“He sure is fond of the word ‘we’,” Andrew observed after a moment, his brows arched.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“‘ _ **We’re out of biscuits**_ ,’” he read. “‘ _ **We need more jam--used the last of it this morning**_ ,’ ‘ _ **What would you say if we switched detergents?**_ ’”

 

He continued scrolling as my face warmed.

 

“You hid his shoes?”

 

“Give me that.” I snatched the phone from his hands.

 

He laughed, and motioned for a refill of both our glasses. “I’m not here to judge you, Syd. I love you, and I think this whole situation is actually pretty endearing, if fucked up.”

 

I eyed him crossly, and checked the message under the lip of the table.

 

_**We should try a new blend for tea. Ideas?** _

 

I did thrust my phone into my purse, then.

 

I shake my head at the memory and, tired of waving off the Victorian-clad attendants, I leave the goth store and make for the tea stand. I’ve spent too much time here, and if I don’t make it to the actual market soon, my routine for the entire day will be thrown off. I thought that coming to The Lock would be a good time to clear my head of all this, but it had only exacerbated my frustration.

 

As I hand over Tom’s card for the special Yumchaa blend, Midnight Grey--the more brazen, spicier uncle of the Earl--the words Andrew left me with sound in an annoying loop. As we were settling up the cheque, he’d laid a hand on my arm, his face serious for the first time that night.

 

“The thing is, Syd, all joking aside, you’ve not denied any of this.”

 

I opened my mouth to respond, embarrassed and ready to defend myself, but he barreled on through.

 

“I’m not accusing you of anything, and I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong. But you should consider what this is doing to you, working for--worse! Cleaning for!--the man you…” he trailed off at my look. “For someone you care about. Just, be careful. Be aware of how this will affect you as this continues to...develop.”

 

“It’s not. I don’t--”

 

“Oh, don’t try denying it now. I won’t believe you.” He overrode my attempts to pay my half of the tab, and stretched a sad smile. “Don’t let him take advantage of you.”

 

This final statement had ended the night on a piteous note, and I push the image of his concerned face from my mind.

 

The fresh tea tucked into one of my market bags, I make a hasty retreat from The Lock, regretting the decision to come here at all. It hadn’t worked its calming charms in the slightest, and I was more irritated than I had been before making the special stop. At least I had a special tea to show for my efforts (as Tom requested), if not only the blackness of my mood.

 

While I was aware that I was perhaps playing a dangerous game with Tom, having Andrew--the man I trusted with my whole life, namely Tilley--call me out on it made it seem all the more problematic. My options seem to be to bury my feelings for Tom, or to quit my position. Neither are things I particularly want to do.

 

Very near the steps leading out of The Lock, I spot a familiar logo from the corner of my eye. At a small antiques stall, I see an old, though still unopened, Mechano set. It is one that I know Tilley doesn’t have in its entirety, and I know she much prefers the older sets to the new releases, all of which try to work more robotics into the building process, relying less on the simple mechanics of gears, levers, and pulleys. It takes me no time at all to hand the cash over for the set, spending the majority of my weekly allowance on my favourite indulgence. I place it in the same bag as the tea, and belatedly get on with my day.

 

* * *

 

 

When I finally walk through the mudroom door, I am relieved to not see Tom first thing. I haven’t seen him for a few days, not since we’d discussed, quite heatedly, my past in dancing. Not since I’d laid my hands on his shoulders and showed him just how tall I was _en pointe_. And not since he showed me how much he liked it as he looked up at me with bold desire. I don’t know if I will ever be ready to face him again.

 

The kitchen is dim, though it’s almost midday; the dark mass of cloud cover outside making for a gloomy start to the week. I shiver, though it’s not particularly cold inside the house, and hands still full of groceries, awkwardly flip the switch on the electric kettle. I lay my bags on the counter and am about to start to unload the groceries when I see the Post-It stuck to the tap.

 

_**In the garden.** _

__

_**-T** _

 

I glance over my shoulder to the windows facing the back garden. I don’t see him, but the threatening clouds look heavier than they had a moment ago. The switch on the kettle flicks, and I abandon the groceries for one of the large earthenware mugs I used for tea my first day in. I’ll leave the fresh looseleaf for the afternoon, instead choosing to drop in a bag.

 

The air is heavy and wet and cool as I cross the back lawn, looking for Tom. It’s not quite chilly out, but I wish I had thought to bring a cardigan. I cup the hot, heavy mug in both hands, careful not to spill as I search him out.

 

“Tom?”

 

A flutter of pre-storm wind carries my voice out ahead of me as I follow the natural curve of the flowerbeds. They are all greenery, no blossoms, though precisely and neatly trimmed. The grass is thick and springy and lush. Were it my own garden, I would kick off my shoes and walk the length of it barefoot.

 

Rounding the bend of the flowerbed, I see the ramshackle garden shed he’d talked about at our first tea. It is indeed shabby, bordering on dilapidated; every plank, from its low stilts to the narrow walkway surrounding it, warped and dingy grey. Velvet moss clings to the craggy slate of the roof, or what slate is left, and the smudge of green colours the rest of the beleaguered boards, giving it the appearance of slowly dissolving into the vegetation surrounding it.  It’s completely charming, and I imagine it as if a storm weren’t brewing, nestled in the warm buzz of bees and watery sunlight.

 

“Tom?” I try again, and I’m startled by his sudden appearance, standing tall from his crouched position around the corner of the platform lofting the shed from the ground.

 

He seems equally jolted by my showing up, his eyes darting to the state of his dirty clothes and hands. For some unfathomable reason, my heart is pounding.

 

It occurs to me that he hadn’t asked me to join him, or that I don’t have a particularly good reason for following him out here, other than to bring him a tea. One look at the state of him, and I don’t think that tea is even terribly appropriate. He’s slick from head to toe in sweat, his hair wet and curling. His thin shirt clings to him and is almost soaked completely through. While the wet in the air had chilled me, it had apparently done the opposite for him.

 

He pulls the shirt from his skin, flapping it a bit. My gaze unconsciously wanders to the stretch of his taut stomach revealed by the movement, and cheeks burning, I immediately glance up at his face. He’s not looking at me, though. Well, he is looking at my legs. I think. Maybe.

 

“I...brought you tea,” I say, my voice small.

 

Slowly, he drags his focus farther north and I wonder where his thoughts were. I caught him looking at my legs more than once the afternoon of the dancing in the reception room debacle.

 

He glances at the mug in my hands as if the gesture hurts him, his face suddenly sad.

 

“I didn’t realise--I was chilled when I came in,” I say quickly. “I can get you a cold water instead, if you’d like.” He’s holding up his hand before I can finish.

 

“Don’t you dare.” His morose expression remains, but he smiles through it. “Come here.” He motions for me to join him in the greenery surrounding the shed. The thought of spending the evening scrubbing grass stains from my Keds is only a momentary blip as I pick my way over to him. He watches me as I approach, his gaze intense, heavy. I hand over the hot mug, cool air rushing to meet my warm hands as soon as they are empty. He takes a sip, the steam of the drink surely adding to the perspiration on his face.

 

“This is wonderful,” he murmurs as he lowers the cup, and I realise how close I’m standing to him, how near I’d let myself wander.

 

“It’s just Yorkshire,” I say, equally as soft. A confused look sweeps momentarily over his eyes, and with a small lurch of my heart, I wonder if he was referring to something other than the tea. He’s sad again as his eyes drop to my mouth. He promised he wouldn’t kiss me, and I’d promised the same, but the closeness of the dense garden air and the heartbreak his look paints has me reconsidering. I bite my lower lip as I shift closer to him, and his tongue darts out to wet his own.

 

The raindrops begin to fall with heavy splats, rousing us both. His gaze darts to me as the rain comes down harder, then with comical panic, to the full mug of tea in his hands.

 

“Oh, pour it out!” I shout as the clouds open above us. I make a run for the house. “I’ll make you another!”

 

He does, and we dash across the lawn. After a few strides, his hand flies back to grasp mine, and he hauls me with him, quickening my pace. It’s not until we’ve made it into the mudroom that I realise that we’re both laughing, dripping water onto the tile floor. He’s still holding my hand.

 

All the melancholy from the garden seems to have washed from him with the rain. His smiles and laughter are infectious, and I follow suit, wiping the water from my face. He walks to place the now empty mug in the sink, still trailing me after him by our joined hands. When he turns back to me, my heart stutters in my chest.

 

I want him. I pretend and I abstain and I look the other way, but _oh_ , do I want him. I want him every day I walk through the door, after every text message, during every tea. But now, in this moment of distilled joy I want him _here_. On the floor, his body still wet from the rain. It pangs hard and heavy at the center of my chest. I’m smiling like a fool at him, clutching at the hand he has wrapped around mine. I release his hand and turn, burying my face in my own as I stifle an almost hysterical laugh. I have to get myself together.

 

My heart thunders as he suddenly follows my snatched-away hand. He wraps his arms around me from behind, low laughter filling my ears. _Oh, god._ The air stills, and my breath comes in hot bursts. Instinctively, as I have apparently lost all sense, I lean into him.   _What are we doing? What am_ I _doing?_

 

“What are you thinking?” he whispers. I can hear the smile in his voice, feel the scratch of his cropped beard against my ear. I giggle again and lower shaking hands to his damp forearms. Warning sirens sound in my ear, telling me to pull away, get away before--

 

I settle more deeply into his chest, feeling the brush of his lips, not quite a kiss, not quite a broken promise, at the skin below my ear. _This is bad. This is so good, which is bad._ My talk with Andrew last night had been more frank than I realised. Before, my feelings for Tom had been theoretical, an outcome of my giving in to something. Andrew, damn Andrew, had spoken of them as if they already existed, as if I were already in too deep--and not resisting at all.

 

“Sydney.” The word runs balmy tendrils across my skin. I imagine trailing my hand up to his damp hair, imagine pulling him on top of me on the floor. I’m tempted to prove Andrew right, and myself wrong.

 

I lift my hands to do just that when the doorbell rings.

 

Startled, Tom and I both laugh. First the rain, and now the post. I pull out of his arms, but his hand finds mine again, maintaining that dangerous link. He’s smiling, and it feels good. I can’t make myself pull away.

 

The doorbell rings again.

 

“I should get that,” I say through a stupid grin.

 

“You can’t answer the door like that. You’re sodden.” His eyes take on a wicked gleam.

 

“Not another word!” I pull my hand from his and he groans, stepping into me in protest.

 

“Sydney.”

 

“It’s probably just something needing signed for the post!” I say, a little panicked. He’s standing close again, so close, his breath feathering over my damp skin, surging chills over my body. His hands hover over me as if he can’t decide where to settle them, where to touch me first. I step out of his almost grasp.

 

“I’ll be right back!” I say in an embarrassingly breathy whisper as a hard knock follows the third ringing of the bell.

 

 _And then what?_ murmurs through my thoughts.

 

I jog from the room.

 

I’m pulling at my skirt and wiping a few clinging hairs from my forehead when I notice the silhouette through the wavy glass of the front door isn’t that of the postman. I take a few more seconds to straighten myself, ready to apologise profusely to whomever has come by, assuring them that I do not usually answer the door in this state.

 

When I swing the door open, an almost as drenched Luke “The Publicist” Windsor is standing on the mat.

 

My heart plummets.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. 
> 
> As always, thanks be to my beta, [startraveller776](http://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776). Y’all have her to thank for the writer I’m becoming; she’s the greatest teacher I could have asked for.

  
“Is it raining inside, too?” Luke looks at me strangely, a polite smile on his lips.  


I attempt to form words, straightening my back and swiping dripping hair out of my face once again. Just as I am about to invite him in using my most stately and practised housekeeper voice, Luke’s look changes.

Confusion morphs into hard, daunting recognition. His mouth pinched, he looks me from head to foot and back again, taking in my soaked uniform, my slowly expanding hair, my panicked expression. His steely glare settles on my face.

He remembers me. Not as the new housekeeper Tom might have mentioned in passing. But from the night when my already insane life was thrown into a tailspin.

“Is Tom in?” he asks, his words slow and tight.

I look down at the floor, falling into the role of docile servant--the one Tom never lets me play. “Yes, sir. Right this--”

“Who was it, darling?” calls Tom from the kitchen, oblivious to the fact that the audience to his words has doubled.

I cringe, squeezing my eyes shut. The gesture, I realise belatedly, probably makes me out to be much more guilty than I actually am, as if this day is typical and his endearments are frequently employed.

Opening my eyes, I glance first at Luke, who is still glowering at me, then to the direction of Tom’s voice. He ambles into view, happy grin on his face as he dries his hair with one of the tea towels from the kitchen. He freezes when he realises who is standing in the still open doorway.

His smile falters as he cants his head and stutters, “L--Luke. Hello, mate. Wasn’t expecting you.”

“I was in the neighbourhood. Thought I’d give Liesl a break and drop these off myself.” Luke fishes out a slightly damp, folded envelope from his shirt pocket and motions vaguely at the room around us. “And to see how your place was coming,” he finishes, his voice terse.

Tom’s grin is back, far too exuberant and wide. He slings the towel over his shoulder in a play at casual ease and strides over to join us just a little too quickly. “Well, brilliant! Great. Come in, come in!”

But Luke is having none of it. “What the hell is going on here?”

I take this moment to break away, closing the door against the slowly waning torrent outside. The storm inside, however, seems to only be beginning. Like a hare caught in an open field, I make no other movements, hoping to disappear entirely through stillness alone.

“What’s she doing here?” Luke asks in the cramped silence.

“Luke,” Tom says, and I decide to escape rather than continue to cower at the door.

“I’ll, um, go make some tea.”  _Christ._  Is that all I ever do? I begin to walk around them.

“No, Sydney, stay.” Tom grasps me by the arm, and I catch his eye. His distress mirrors my own and in that moment, I know that he has told no one, not even his publicist, about this strange thing between us.

Luke studies me again, eyeing my uniform’s attached apron with dawning comprehension that quickly distills into potent anger. “ _Does she work for you?”_

Tearing his gaze from mine, Tom turns to face Luke. He hesitates, possibly considering a lie, but my uniform can hardly be misconstrued as a naughty french maid's. With resignation, he answers, "Yes."

Luke’s gaze flicks between us. “For how bloody long?”

“Um…”   
  


“About two and a half months, sir,” I say when Tom cannot, and I pull my arm from his grasp.

“Call him ‘Luke,’” Tom urges, appalled by my formal address.

“Two and a half months?!” Luke booms, striding farther into the house, leaving us to chase after him into the great room. I am not so eager as Tom to follow.

“Why don’t we all sit down?” Tom makes an attempt to placate Luke, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

Luke whirls on me, however, his eyes narrow. “You are  _her_ , aren’t you? The girl Tom picked up after the press junket?”

The way he says ‘her’--as if it were a dirty word--has me backing away. I look down, unable to stomach the accusation in his gaze. Bile rises in my throat, my toxic reaction to fierce embarrassment.

“I knew that was a bad idea,” he continues in my silence. “I knew it as soon as I saw the look on your face.”

Tom steps in at this, landing a hand on the front of his shoulder again. “You’re upset at me, mate. Not her. I did this.”

Luke works his jaw, as if chewing his next words before spitting them out. “You’re fucking your maid, Tom.” He's positively apoplectic as he surveys my uniform again. “I never thought you’d be so daft as to be fucking your maid. Do you have any idea how this looks?”

I break my silence at this latest accusation, my whole body on fire. “We’re not f--we’re not sleeping together! And I’m not his ‘maid!’”

He gestures wildly to that part of my appearance which offends him so deeply, his voice just as out of control. “Aren’t you though?”

“She’s my housekeeper,” Tom says, though it sounds as if the words are painful to construct.

“Oh, my mistake!” is Luke’s sardonic reply.

Luke drops down on the couch, pressing his palms into his eyes. Warily, Tom sits opposite him on the settee. He makes a weak gesture for me to join him, but I chose to sit in the chair instead, as far from both of them as possible.

“This is great,” Luke continues, sounding utterly exhausted. “Just fantastic. This is what you do when I tell you that you can’t  _actually date_  your one night stand? You hire her as your housekeeper?” He finally removes his hands from his eyes but doesn’t look at either of us.

My mind is replaying the dreadful phone call from so many months ago, when Tom called me before I'd even digested what had transpired between us. So quick to tell me that he couldn't see me again. To hear Luke tell it, he had wanted to see me a great deal. He had wanted--

“I didn’t hire her,” Tom says firmly, interrupting my thoughts before I could make any real sense of them.

Luke turns to him. “You just told me that you ‘did this.’”

“I know you aren’t going to believe me,” Tom says in a careful voice, “but this was actually just a very strange coincidence. The day after we--the next day, she was just here. She was the one assigned by the agency to be my--to clean. She was the one assigned to me.”

Luke shakes his head. “Bullshit.”

“It’s true,” I say, though I’m not sure why I am defending Tom. We haven’t done anything wrong, or at least, nothing so bad as to warrant the contempt radiating from Luke. Something stupid, yes, probably. But nothing wrong. Not yet.

“ _You_  hired her, in fact,” Tom says, encouraged by my support.

“Which time?” Luke’s words are icy, and the seedy implication of them spike through my veins like shattered glass.

“Watch it, Luke,” Tom warns, his voice as sharp as my anger. “You know it wasn’t like that.”

Luke backs down, retreating to the previous line of discussion. “I most certainly did not hire her.”

“Then one of your assistants did. Through her agency, because they claimed to be the most discreet for...celebrities.” Luke snorts at this, but Tom continues, “There’s paperwork to prove I didn’t create this situation!”

“Then why is she still here?” Luke almost shouts. “Why didn’t you have her relocated when you realised  _who_  they sent you?”

Feeling quite like the mentioned relocation could only improve the current situation, I move to stand. Tom rushes to the other end of the settee and catches my arm for the second time.

After a pleading look from Tom, I sit back down. He seats himself on the end of the settee nearest me probably in case I decide to escape this awful confrontation again. I want to leave. I don’t want to listen to Luke talk about me as if I am nothing or no one. His is the attitude I had gotten so complacent with,  _that I’m just the help_. The attitude Tom worked so hard to assure me that he didn’t have. After feeling worthwhile for so many weeks, the hurt of having Luke speak of me like most of my previous clients settles in a conflicted knot in my stomach.

A final reassuring squeeze to my arm--a reassurance that I do not feel--Tom turns back to the irritated publicist. “They would have cut her pay if I’d requested she be put somewhere else. Or sacked her!” I wonder how in depth his conversation with Lillian had been, or if he came up with these theoretical outcomes simply by the worried look on my face that first day. “I demanded she stay on.”

The words echo the powerlessness I felt then, that I feel now.

Luke looks at Tom as if he were a complete imbecile. “So you did have a hand in this!”

Tom’s mouth hangs open for a few moments before he finally sighs, nodding his head. “Sort of.”

“I knew that night was a bad idea,” Luke says, though it seems he’s more talking to himself than to either of us. “I knew it, but I did it anyway because you said you could handle it.” He sends a withering look to Tom with the last words.

“And I have!” Tom practically shouts.

“ _This_  is what you call handling it?” Luke’s voice is exploding through the cavernous room. He rockets off the couch, and I think he would have tackled Tom if not for the coffee table between them. “You know this has sexual harrassment written all over it, don’t you?”

“We’re not--” Tom starts. He’s on his feet, too, his calm ebbing.

“She could go to the police, Tom! Or worse, the press!”

“She can’t!” Tom yells. “She’s signed an NDS!”

The silence that follows is as battering as the words that had vibrated the walls of the room. Something raw, something painful pitches in me, rising as a stone in my throat. I feel trapped in the huge room, the large windows giving a panoramic view of the pouring rain. For a deadly moment, I stare fixedly at the downpour, willing the steady drum of rain to drown out not only Tom’s deleterious words, but also Andrew’s.

_Be careful. Don’t let him take advantage of you._

Something like a sob warbles from between my lips, and I can only just hear Luke’s stunned voice.

“That’s fucked up, Tom.”

I stand on unsteady legs, and not looking at either of them, I jog from the room. I should have run straight out into the rain, let the weather wash this virulent revelation from my body. I should have run out the front door, leaving this farce behind. But out of instinct, I run to the kitchen, the hub at the centre of this perverse game. There is no comfort waiting for me here, though. Only groceries still unpacked. I begin to dump the canvas bags’ contents on the counter.

This is something that I can control. I can put away the groceries. I am efficient and good at my job. If I just put away the groceries, if I focus on just this, I won't fall to pieces. I can keep this job that I so desperately need, Tom won't do what he should have done in the first place and send me on my way, if I just focus on the work.

Tom sprints into the kitchen after me.

“Syd!”

My hands are shaking so violently that I knock over the a glass bottle of milk. I steel myself for the shatter that's coming, but Tom deftly catches it just as it tumbles from the counter. I have to stop myself from thanking him.

“Syd.” His voice is quiet, desperate. “Syd, I didn’t mean--”

“Is that-- Is that why?” My voice erupts from me, and I can hear the ragged edge of my anger. I can hear the pathetic sob splintering through it. “Is that why I’m here? The reason behind our teas? So you can--can--” I make a wretched sound of disgust, not able to say it out loud, “--without me being able to say anything?”

_So much for focus._

Why? Why am I crying? What does this matter, to know that he only continued to pursue me once I was legally in his pocket? It doesn’t matter, and I was never supposed to want this.

“Darling, no.” His words are wet like tears, broken like anger. But he is an actor of the highest calibre, trained to evoke and to entice. I fell for all of it, and I won’t fall for this.

“Don’t call me that,” I spit. “I’m your housekeeper.”

“No, no don’t do this. We were so close.” His hands find me again, but I pull away.

“Close to what, Tom?” I swat angrily at the tears standing on my cheeks. “This can’t happen. There is--there is nothing here.”

I feel I might hate him, looking into his sad eyes. They roam over my face, likely looking for some tender part of me, some other weakness I might let him manipulate. I turn away.

“No, no please.” He attempts to wrap himself around me from behind, as he had only a few short minutes ago. But I am not obliging. My back is stiff, and I clutch my arms to my chest. I knew, from that very first night, that Tom enjoyed having the upper hand, that he was used to controlling a situation.  I knew I held no tangible thread of power in this world of ours, but I trusted him to not exploit it.

I trusted him, and I was an utter fool.

From behind us, Luke clears his throat. I shrug out of Tom’s arms. Work. This is work. My job. Taking two steadying breaths, I turn back to the both of them.

“So this is why, then?” Luke says, looking between us. “Why you keep postponing--”

Tom makes a sound not unlike a growl, and Luke hesitates.

“--the arrangement?” he finishes. It’s cryptic, but I couldn’t care less what Luke is implying.

Tom turns away, hands spearing through his hair.

“Perfect,” Luke says, taking in Tom’s frustration. “Look, Sydney--”

“It’s Syd,” Tom mutters, not turning around.

“Syd, here’s my card.” He pulls it out from his wallet and extends it to me with his first and second finger. “Please,  _please_  call me before you consider calling anyone else.”

It occurs to me that this is the second time this man has handed me a card. He looks less angry, less accusatory. He almost looks regretful, glancing several times to Tom’s turned back.

I stare at the card dubiously, and Luke coughs. “Look,” he says. “I know I wasn’t very kind earlier. I don’t mean any of it personally. That--” he motions to Tom’s rigid body, “--is my job. This--” he motions between Tom and me, “--is my job. I mean no offense. I’m just trying to do  _my job_.”

I consider telling him I would never dream of turning this story over to anyone, what little story  there is. That I have no desire to be splashed across gossip rags, despite my choice of would-be lovers. But the anger, the shame that is coursing through me keeps me from giving him that satisfaction. I simply take the card and hold his gaze.

He seems to understand, and giving Tom a nod, sees himself out. I hear the door open, but then he trots back into the room, the damp envelope from earlier in his hand this time. “I forgot.”

He lays the envelope on the counter, glancing at me. “Suppose these are for you.”

And then he is gone.

I flick the edge of the card for a few moments, the sound deafening in the too-quiet kitchen. I read the neat print, the unassuming typeface doing nothing to betray the colossal import of Luke Windsor or his work. I lay the card on the counter next to the envelope and begin, for the third time, unpacking the groceries. I will complete this task. I will not break down. In all this, I ignore Tom, who is still standing with his hands braced on the counter.

When I’ve unloaded nearly all the food, I feel his hand brush against my arm. I jerk back and catch his wince from the corner of my eye. He reaches to empty the last bag, as if helping me with the groceries will take away from the hurt, and I let him. The whole ordeal has wrung from me any energy to tell him to bugger off.

“What’s this?” he asks as I close the last cabinet. He’s holding the antique Meccano set I bought for Tilley earlier today, though that seems so long ago, now.

“It’s for Tilley,” I say mechanically. “I didn’t use your card, don’t worry. I have the receipt if you’d like to--”

“I wasn’t going to ask. I know you wouldn’t…” He trails off, and I snatch away the tea sitting beside him. He’ll have to enjoy the new blend on his own today. I won’t be staying late.

“Does Tilley like--”

This is what breaks me. For whatever reason, it is the off-hand, friendly mention of my sister’s name that has me whirling on Tom. Red-hot ire and humiliation combine within me, creating a tenacious and explosive reaction.

“Tilley loves to build! She enjoys maths and mechanical engineering. She’s brilliant. Were she to function better in a traditional classroom setting, or were I able to afford a nontraditional one, she’d probably be tenured at Oxford by now!” 

I carry on despite the confusion that crosses Tom's features.

“She builds replicas of the world’s most complex structures, so huge that she sometimes sleeps on the floor beneath them because she has blocked the way to her own bed.” I snatch the box from Tom’s hand. “This is what I spend my money on, old Meccano sets and outdated maths textbooks for her to correct. When I have a day off, Andrew and I will take her to science museums. Or we’ll sit quietly for hours while Tilley takes specific notes on the construction of a building she wants to replicate.

“Andrew!” I say when Tom opens his mouth. “Andrew! The caretaker I employ to look after Tilley! I work nearly seven days a week to provide this mediocre life for her, the irony of which means I don’t get to enjoy a life  _with_  her. Perhaps if I’d stayed in school…

“Oh, and school!” My voice has taken on a manic quality, but I can’t make it stop. I can’t reel it in. “School. I went to King’s, did you know? After the Royal Ballet School. Comparative literature, top marks, lived in college. Only for first year, though. Had to drop out, after my mother--my mother--”

“Syd, please.”

“What else, Tom? What else have I been keeping from you?” I pull my hair from my elastic, rumple my damp hair as I try to decipher the words rattling around my brain in no particular order. I practically _pirouette_ in my turn back to him.

“You’re only the second bloke I’ve shagged! Might find it hard to believe, but most of the lads at the academy were sleeping with each other. I had to wait till uni! One of my professors. Isn’t that a pretty picture? Led on by a man who turned out to be married, and seven years later, I’m blessed with you! A man who only wanted me for my signature on a document!”

“Syd, stop!”

“Is this better, Tom? Needn’t wait for tea!” I sound ugly, but I can't stay the floodgate that's been opened, not even at the pain drawing lines in Tom's face. “All these truths you can gather together, lace them on a string! Wear them like a bracelet, these baubles that make up Syd The Housekeeper! ‘Oh, the cleverness of me! Perhaps if I seem interested enough in her sad little life, I can fuck the one girl who can’t make a shilling off my story!’”

Tears are in his eyes and my own vision is similarly clouded. I feel so wounded by this day, by Tom and by my own words. It is against my nature to abuse those I care so much about, to elicit the tortured expression on his face. And I do. I do care so much for him. I care more than is decent or reasonable. I might have loved him, if not for the vile motives behind his apparent friendship. I might have made love to him today against all my better thoughts, if we hadn’t been found out by the only sane person in this scenario.

And through all this, though his words ring in my ears as if they still echo off the white, white walls of the great room--“ _She can’t! She’s signed an NDS!_ ”--even so, I find that I still care. I still care.  _Oh_ , I hate that.

If only abject meanness could wipe from you all the sentiment you held for that person. If only the human spirit were wise enough to reset at the infection of cruelty, rather than working to fight off the the malignancy, or worse yet, incorporate the virus into its very nature, tainted and affected. To be changed and lesser as a result of abuse, rather than rejecting the hurt altogether.

But I see him trying to form words to fix this, to fix me, and I know that he is not the only one guilty of deception. I had been trying to protect my loved ones, protect myself. Was he also protecting something, someone? Was he trying to protect me?

I save him the trouble. “I’m going to take a day off, so you won’t see me until Friday.”

“Wait--”

“Tom, I really don’t care to hear anything that you have to say,” I mutter, turning from him to pick up the Meccano box. He hasn’t made a move to explain himself and frankly, I’m glad for it. I would probably believe every word he told me, fool that I am.

“No, I know. I know,” he says, and I hope he doesn’t try to touch me again. I don’t know that I would be able to stand it; my starved body might just give in. He reaches instead for the envelope Luke left. “Take these. I got them for…” He looks at me hard, taking care with his next words. “They’re for Tilley.”

When I open my mouth to refuse, he continues over me. “It’s two tickets for my show, Baal. You said she likes villains--”

“She likes Loki.” My voice is stony, preditorial. He has no claim over these facets of my sister, and I have to swallow my inclination to smack him across the face.

“Well, Baal is a little more  _Sturm und Drang_  than Loki--it is Brecht--but I think she’ll find she likes him as well.” His tone is still cautious.

“Thank you, Tom, but--”

“Please take them. This isn’t about you and me.” He waits a moment, letting the words hang between us. “It’s something I wanted to do for Tilley. I think she’ll enjoy the show. And I die at the end, so I know  _you’ll_  enjoy the show.”

His last remark inspires an involuntary smile from me, but I bite it back. He doesn't deserve it. No matter how much I can’t stand the sight of Tom right now, I would feel awful keeping Tilley from seeing a show that sold out before previews were even completed. I had looked into getting tickets once the run had been extended, but by then, they were too costly for me to afford.

Tilley had been devastated.

I know I am being manipulated, made to feel something wonderful at this kind gesture done for my sister. And I am still so, so angry. But there is no reason Tilley shouldn’t benefit from my stupidity.

“I haven’t told her about you, about my working here,” I say as I take the envelope. “And you won’t either, should we see you after the show.”

“Promise,” he says, his voice earnest.

After a moment of consideration, I take the card Luke left behind as well. I don’t know that I will have a reason to call but then again, I don’t know much of anything, anymore. I gather my things and leave without making tea.  

While on the bus back home, my mobile buzzes in my purse. I fish it out and after glancing at the number on the screen, reject the call.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient for this update! Real life, y'all.
> 
> Thanks to [startraveller](http://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776) as always for her endless help and support. Best beta ever.

“Why did you get tickets to _Baal_ on a night you have to work?”

 

Tilley’s voice echoes through the small flat, and Andrew makes no move to quiet her. He’s seated at the recently vacated dinner table, watching the scene from over the top of his paperback. He’s been unusually silent during the entire conversation, leaving me to fend for myself.

 

“It’s all they had available, Goose. I’m sorry.”

 

“Then ask off!” she demands. It sounds simple from her lips. Jules would give me the night off in a shot, were it really my work schedule that was keeping me from attending the play.

 

“I can’t ask off,” I say calmly, hoping to coax her to follow in volume.

 

She doesn’t. “You took off on Wednesday!”

 

I cringe. “I know.”

 

“Then why can’t you ask off again?” Her tone borders on frantic. I’ll lose her if I’m not careful.

 

“That’s two days in the same week, Goose. That’s a lot.”

 

“Most people have at least two days off per week, Syd,” Andrew mutters, turning a page of the book he is no longer reading.

 

“Y _ou_ don’t!” I hiss back.

 

Tilley makes a noise of frustration and begins pacing. Her hands squeeze into tight fists, then release, over and over. “Why did you waste your day off watching movies with me when you could have gotten off to see the play?”

 

Andrew looks to me at this, his eyebrows raised in mock question, as if daring me to dig myself deeper. I turn back to Tilley.

 

“I just can’t make it, Tills. But you and Andrew can go together! I thought you’d just be happy to go.”

 

“Not just to go, but to go with you! I want to go with you!” she says, the loudest statement so far. Her pacing has slowed, but her hands are almost flapping at this point. “I want to go with you and I want to stand at the stage door with you and I want to meet him with you.”

 

My breath hitches at this. “You--you want to try to meet him?”

 

“Uh, yeah!”  
  


Panic shoots through me. “You remember last time, don’t you, Tilley Goose? Maybe you shouldn’t--”

 

“I’m fine!” Her volume immediately drops and she stretches her hands out in front of her, palms down, her fingers splayed. She holds them there, trembling, before lowering them to her sides. She continues to face the wall as she speaks. “I’m fine. I can be good, Sydie.”

 

I can actually feel my heart breaking at her soft plea. “Oh, Tills, I didn’t mean it like that.” I take a step toward her, but her tense body seizes even more, struggling to keep still. I stop. “I didn’t mean that you were bad. I just…”

 

I think about the last time I had been with Tilley in one of these situations, and the time before that. She wanted desperately to meet the man beneath the Loki horns, but every time, the crowd had been too much. I think of how I had to pull her out into the street away from the crush of people, honking cabs swerving around us, just to get her to calm down. She was laid up with a fever that night my life went to hell, or she would have been there, keeping me from making that stupid, unthinkable decision when the card was pressed into my hand.

 

I can’t leave her to those crowds without me, no matter how much the thought of greeting Tom on this unfamiliar battlefield turns my stomach.

 

“Perhaps I can--”

 

“No,” she says, her hands quivering ever so slightly. Her voice is unwavering, however. “I don’t want you there. I’ll go with Andrew. And I’ll meet Tom Hiddleston. And I’ll get him to sign my Loki. And I’ll be good. And you’ll miss it, like you miss everything.”

 

“Goose--”

 

“No! I’ll be good with Andrew. Andrew believes in me!”

 

“Tilley--” Andrew starts, finally coming to my rescue, but I wave him off as I tip my head back to keep the prick of tears from running down my face. I can’t be sure what feels worse: my apparent betrayal of Tilley, or my sickening relief at being let off the hook.

 

“No, it’s fine, Andrew. She’s right,” I say.

 

I march stiffly over to my sports bag by the door and sling it over my shoulder in preparation of yet another exit.

 

“I miss everything.”

 

\------

 

When I step back through the doorway some hours later, Andrew is still seated at the kitchen table. Were it not for the cleared dishes and faint scent of the wipes he uses on the kitchen counters, I would have thought he hadn’t moved at all.

 

I hadn’t bothered pulling on my ballet shoes at class tonight, instead performing lazy half-demonstrations of technique in my scuffed up trainers when a student needed clarification. Brenda tried to get my attention after dismissal, but I left immediately, only pausing long enough to ask that she turn out the lights when she left. I felt guilty for wasting my students’ time, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave my emotional baggage at the door. Tilley’s pained face and her preference of Andrew’s company over mine devastated me, and no volume of music or combination of dance steps could drown that out.

 

Andrew's stiff figure at the table as he reads by the garish overhead light brings back to full life the tender throb of Tilley's accusations--what little I've stifled of it.

 

“Is she in bed?” I ask after a moment, the overbearing silence of the flat too much to stand.

 

“Yeah, went off just after you left.” He doesn’t turn to face me.

 

“That’s early.”

 

“Didn’t much fancy waiting up for you, I expect.” His tone is flippant, and there’s no doubt I deserve it.

 

“Suppose not.” I drop my sports bag by the door and walk to the refrigerator, hoping for something to dull my thoughts. There’s a partial six-pack of the beer Andrew likes, and I gesture to him with one. He looks at me for a moment before nodding. I join him at the dinner table with the bottle opener, not bothering with glasses.

 

“You should go with her on Saturday,” he says after we’ve each had our cursory first sips.

 

“I can’t.” My words sound dead, defeated.

 

“Why not?”

 

“How?” I sound defensive, but I try to monitor my volume in the eerily quiet flat. “How could I go with her? How could I stand there and talk to him like I don’t--”

 

“Love him?” Andrew’s look is cool. His simple conclusion to my sentence chokes my words in my throat.

 

“Know him,” I finally finish.

 

“You do love him, though,” he says, ignoring me. “Don’t you? You better, to put us all through this.” He takes a pull of his beer at my stunned silence.

 

“Put _us_ through this?”

 

“Yes, Syd! What happens to you happens to all of us! You think Tilley doesn’t know you’re hurting? Give her more credit than that.”

 

I push away from the table and begin to pace like my sister. “Yes of course! Because I underestimate her at every turn!”

 

“Syd, I didn’t mean--”

 

“I know what you meant!” I snap.

 

Anger crackles over my skin. Not just anger at Andrew, but anger at myself for considering that I might be alone in my melancholy. Of course my dark moods have affected more than just me! I pause in my pacing. Was it really so selfish to think of myself first? Isn’t the opposite the greatest of my sins? My compulsion to make everyone else a priority?

 

I scrub my hand across my face, as if wiping away the conflicting notions.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” I say at last. “You were right about him.”

 

“Right about what?”

 

I go to my purse hanging on the peg by the door. “He was taking advantage.”

 

“How?” Andrew’s gaze follows me as I extract my cigarette pouch and pull out an already rolled fag. “I thought you quit,” he says quietly.

 

“I have,” I say as I seat myself at the lip of the sink and nudge the window above it open.

 

“His publicist popped by the house, and wasn’t he surprised to find me there, the whore from the press junket?” I light the fag and blow the smoke out the open window, moving so my hand with the cigarette rests on the sill. Smoking at the sink was a habit of my mother’s, one that I had picked up in the trying years after the dance academy. It had been quite some time since I felt the compulsion to assume this defeated posture, to watch my polluted lungfuls of air drift among the rooftops of London while my personal poisons of the day settled deeper in my bones. “Tom told him that the only reason he was still stringing me along was because I’d signed a nondisclosure statement.”

 

I watch the night air suck the thin wisps of smoke out and away from the window, and I take another drag. I’d gone a whole month without, this last round.

 

“He said that?” he asks, his voice sounding appalled.

 

“Well.” I flick the ash into the empty sink then turn the tap to wash it quickly down the drain. “Not in as many words.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

Taking another drag, I recount the garden downpour, the almost encounter in the kitchen, and the arrival of Luke. The still fresh pain of it has me reliving these moments in a surreal detachment. It is as if the scenes were being acted out in front of me, as if I am narrating the joy and sorrows of a troop of actors rather than my own memories. I tell him about Luke’s belligerent questions and Tom’s biting defense in mechanical, matter-of-fact tones. I leave out my explosive reaction to his curiosity about Tilley, though I’m not sure why. It might help my case as World’s Worst Sister.

 

“I think you’re reaching a bit,” Andrew says when I finish, surprising me.

 

“He said--!”

 

“Yeah, because his publicist was having a shit fit!” Having finished his own beer, he reaches across the table to my practically untouched one. “Did you even hear him out?”

 

“Why are you defending him?” I say, my voice raw. I don’t need this. Doubt over Tom’s maliciousness had already begun to poke holes in my certainty, and to have Andrew confirm this doubt was infuriating. I want someone to hand me a pint of ice cream from the freezer, agree that Tom is a wank. Not Andrew, insisting on what I fear may be the actual truth of the situation: that I left too soon, listened to too little.

 

“Because I desperately need you happy, Syd!” His words ring out a little too loudly, and he softens as he goes on. “Is that so hard to believe, that I want you to be happy?”

 

“You think T--” I stop myself and stub out my fag in the water standing at the bottom of the sink. “You think _he_ would make me happy?”

 

Andrew takes a long pull from my beer. “I think he is making you happy, and you’re sabotaging it.”

 

There is a thump from the direction of Tilley’s room, and I throw a worried glance at it before continuing in a sharp whisper.

 

“He’s the one who said--”

 

“Yes!” he whispers back. “But you’re the one who took it at face value! Don’t be a div, Syd! You knew that was a factor, but you also know it isn’t all that motivates his loving you.”

 

His too-sure statement propels me to stand and I reclaim my beer from him. I feel suddenly antsy. I begin to think over my behaviour over the last few weeks and try to determine what I could have said or done to imply this absurdity. I return to an uneasy perch at the sink as I take a drink.

 

“He doesn’t love me.”

 

“Oh really?”

 

“Yes!” I nearly slam the bottle down, and the froth in the neck of the bottle threatens to spill over the top. Just like me. “You say that word so freely, as if it’s easy!”

 

“Love is easy, Syd,” he says, standing and coming over to me. “And you are easy to love.” The look in his eyes is unreadable, and I shift farther down the counter.

 

“Andrew--” I warn, worrying at the direction this might take.

 

“I’m not talking about me,” he says, his hand shooting to his unruly red hair. It’s nearly the same motion that Tom does when he’s flustered, and the thought tips in my stomach. “That was a long time ago, a very long time, and I gave up on the possibility of us years ago. I’m speaking as nothing but a friend to you.”

 

He pulls at his hair, a nervous habit I think he’s picked up from me, and my unease settles somewhat.

 

“You come home smiling, Syd. Working as hard as you do, I don’t know how that’s possible. You dance when you think people can’t see you. I don’t care how pleasant lovely old Mr Benson was, he never made you feel like dancing in the market queue.” He sighs before continuing, “And now you’re hurting, and don’t think I don’t see that.”

 

I shake my head, slow and resolute. “I can’t go to the play.”

 

“You should go.”

 

“I can’t!”

 

He nods, though it looks like the concession pains him. “I know. Love makes a coward of you, Sydney Martin. You hide behind it and you do what you think is best for everyone.”

 

“This is best!”

 

“For who? For Tilley? Bowing out of this moment she’s wanted for years? Or for Tom? Suppose he’s not expecting to see me at that stage door. Or you? How on earth could this be best for you?”

 

“Andrew, please.” I feel the twinge of tears threatening. I thought so long about this in the days following the dreadful row at Tom’s. I considered what it would be like to go, to watch him act, perform. To suffer the recognition of a tactic he might have used on me, against me, to see this villain coerce the audience like I had been coerced. And after, to lie most boldly to my sister as I pretended the man at the stage door wasn’t my undoing.

 

“I can’t. He might be a talented enough actor to pull it off, but I’m not. I can’t stand there next to Tilley and see him. Watch him talk to her, charm her utterly like I know he will, given the chance. I’m living in a house of cards, and this would decimate it.”

 

Andrew’s face is solemn as he whispers, “Would that be so bad?”

 

I’m afraid to contemplate an answer.

 

“I’ll go,” he says after a moment. “I don’t like it, but I’ll go. I won’t cover for you forever, mind. You need to figure out where To--where _he_ falls in your life. Eventually, you’re going to have to give in--or give up.”

 

I don’t acknowledge this ultimatum, but rather fish the sodden butt of my cigarette out of the sink and toss it in the bin. Like a flower in Tom’s garden, the thought of giving in to temptation reaches for the sunlight. I can either allow the idea to blossom or crush it under my heel. Both seem precarious, plucking a bloom never meant to weather this storm or devastating something that might have been beautiful. And, in my usual fashion, I deny either possibility and continue adrift in the void between.

 

I grab the rag to wipe down the counters, but Andrew stops me.

 

“I did all that already. Just...go to bed. Get some rest. You see him again tomorrow, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” I mutter, not at all looking forward to our first encounter since Luke.

 

“Maybe hear him out this time?”

 

I shake my head. Tom is becoming an accomplished gardener. I am afraid of what he might achieve if given the opportunity to tend this sprout of an idea. “No. I’ll be talking with him as little as possible if I can help it.”

 

He sighs, pushing away from the counter. “I’m off. See you tomorrow.”

 

I wipe down the counters after he’s left anyway, delaying sleep and what dreams may come for as long as I can. It’s in dreams where I can’t tamp down these thoughts and inclinations and it’s in waking where I find my most potent sadness.

 

\------

 

When I push through the door of Tom’s mudroom the next day, I half expect him to be waiting for me in the kitchen. I deflate in relief at his absence as I glance at a Post-It he’s left on the tap again.

 

_**Working upstairs. Be down for tea.** _

__

_**-T** _

 

I stow my purse as I consider what to do with my day. I  finally decide on shampooing all the carpets of the lower half-floor; deep cleaning the spare bedrooms will keep me far from the upper loft where Tom will be working. I put in my earbuds--which I don’t normally do when the clients are home--and set to work.

 

The day passes, but not with any particular legerity, much to my displeasure. I clean with a determination that borders on mania, and my music choices devolve from upbeat and motivating tracks to the punishing accusations of a Raincoats bootleg. Why _wasn’t_ he waiting for me at the door this morning? I was relieved when I didn’t see him first off, but now I’m not so sure. There are things we need to talk about. Why hasn’t he come to find me?

 

I wipe the windows of the lower bedroom so forcefully that the panes rattle. Does he expect me to join him for tea? To talk this debacle out over a saucer of chocolate biscuits? Or worse, does he hope to make amends at the play tomorrow? I told him that he wasn’t to give up the ghost about my working situation to Tilley, but did he have other plans?

 

Then again, hadn’t I decided that this was just work? That I’m just here to do my job? But another part of me, a larger, more logical part, knows that the two of us have delved too deeply into the personal. We aren’t dating, but neither is he just my boss. He’s more than that, and the earlier row proved as much. He’s never held qualms about overstepping the bounds of professionalism before. Why start now by leaving me to my day?

 

By the time I’m preparing tea, I’m irritated beyond reason. I’m stuck between the inclination to confront him about his avoidance and simply storming out. But the fact that we haven’t yet spoken makes each gesture seem melodramatic. This adds another layer of annoyance to my conflicted thoughts, and when he enters the kitchen in the final moments of my preparing the tea tray, his soft “hello” sends me over.

 

“I’m almost done; just give me a moment!” I huff, not even bothering to face him.

 

He leaves, and the soft padding of his bare feet set my teeth on edge. As an afterthought, I remove my cup and saucer from the tray and carry service-for-one into the reception room. I lay the tray down, not too quietly, and look boldly at him, daring him to comment on the singular cup.

 

When his eyes meet mine, however, they have no anger in them, no irritation or disbelief in my rebuff of our daily routine. They are instead resolved and not a little sad. His brows are quirked upwards in pain and he nods once, simply.

 

I snap.

 

“Are you serious?”

 

He tilts his head in question and I nearly scream. “You are! You really aren’t going to fight me on this!”

 

I hate the affronted look on his face as if he were the victim, and I hate my petty rage.

 

“Fight you on what?” he says.

 

“On not joining you for tea!”

 

He looks guilty now, pained. “Syd, you’re free to do as you like” is his soft reply.

 

“Oh am I?” My words drip with sarcasm. “Now I’m free to do as I like?”

 

“You always have been!”

 

 _Oh yes_ , I think with satisfaction. He’s angry now.

 

“That is not the impression I got from you on Monday,” I say cooly.

 

“You know I never meant it like that!” He’s on his feet now, and we’re standing like he and Luke had, the coffee table the only barrier in our vitriol.

 

“I don’t know! I don’t know anything! How am I supposed to know what you meant, what you want!” I escape the crowded seating area, feeling trapped all over again.

 

“I’ve been very clear--”

 

His words have me whirling to face him. “You have not,” I spit. “You never have! We slept together, and you asked for my number. But then, you ring me the morning after and you call it off before the sun is even up! I came to your house to clean and you kiss me! We play this perverse game of house and then your publicist shows up and I’m suddenly a legal convenience!”

 

“That is not fair, Sydney.” He approaches me. “You know it isn’t.”

 

I stand my ground. “You’ll have to pardon my confusion. I didn’t exactly hear you fighting for me.”

 

“I couldn’t!” he booms. He reaches up as if to pull his hair, then flings his arms out in frustration. “Things are...complicated.”

 

“Oh, don’t play that card with me, Tom. I’m not daft.” I take a step towards him. “What is it, ‘the arrangement?’ A publicity relationship to pad your image for your next project? I reasoned that much out.”

 

He doesn’t answer me, but his surprise is apparent. Had he really thought he’d been so clandestine? That I was too stupid to guess the true reason behind his thin excuse for all of this going the way it had?

 

“It’s not really that difficult, Tom. What you see me as, what you want is what’s complicated.”

 

Something switches in him, and he closes the distance between us. I am afraid he might grab me, or worse--kiss me. Instead he stops just short, straightening to tower over me what little he can. He tips back his head to look down his nose at me. The effect is startling and immediate.

 

“You know what I want.” His voice is thick and dark as tar, and I feel if I were to breathe in, the air around him would suffocate me. He doesn’t touch me, but I feel tightly gripped all the same.

 

“Let’s turn this on its head, shall we?” he continues at my stunned silence. “Let’s say...I _want you._ And not just your body, though--” he shakes his head as if clearing it, and wets his lips before smiling grimly, his eyes trailing over my form “--I could fuck you senseless right now.”

 

I feel as if my legs might give out beneath me.  

 

His wry smile fading, he pushes on, meeting my eyes again. “Let’s say that I want all of it, your time, your weekend plans. I want you on my arm at premiers, towering over me in four inch heels as the world looks on in basest jealousy.” His voice picks up a hammering tempo, beating the words as if on a tight drum. His volume rises, yet his tone is still pitched so low, shaded so black. “Let’s say I want your life, your children, your problems, your successes, your tears, your happiness, your sickness, your health. Let’s say I am being the most transparent I have ever been in this moment and I am resolute in having you. What would you say then, Sydney? Let us play this by your rules and hear you say, in the most singular of terms, what you would have done. What do _you_ want?”

 

I stammer, the noise not quite words. “Y-you don’t even know me.”

 

“You are not so tenebrous as you believe yourself to be, my dear. I see you.”

 

His words are hypnotic, so much like those used against me on that most dangerous of midnights. I try to think beyond them, try to focus. Who talks like this? Who terrifies and entices and beguiles all with simple words--and to what end? He’s asked a question, though I can’t remember what it was. His eyes bore into me, pinning me like an insect on a board.

 

“Come, Sydney.” His rich timbre goads me, his ire sparking along his words like an electrical current. “Play the game. Tell the truth. You have my utmost attention, and to hear you tell it, it is _so easy_ to flay your heart open.” Tears stand in his eyes, though his look is rigid as steel. “I want every ounce of you, darling, the world be damned. And now it’s your turn. What. Do. You. Want?”

 

I turn away, searching for fresher air, for words I cannot form. My indignation had pushed me to the very bounds, I thought. But Tom’s truths weigh on me like the most ponderous of manacles. I had been so determined to hear them, yet I hadn’t considered my own. I feel beaten, wrung out; I was merciless and he answered in kind. I feel cruel for demanding this price of him while having nothing to offer as recompense.

 

The simple fact is, I have never considered what it is I want. I have thought long about what I think is best, or what is smart or logical. But never of what I want. To think of a world where Tom and I were together, in the most simple of terms. I never let myself tread that path, the thought of Tom as mine, and what that would entail. Tom spoke in terms of forever, my life with his, but I hadn’t even considered what it would be like to stand beside him, equal and in love. I thought it would be too painful to fantasize about that which I would never have. Tom had not done the same.

 

My air robbed of me, I can only whisper the words to great expanses of the room. “I don’t know.”

 

I expect his wit, his mockery at my hypocrisy--that ashen voice to accuse me so precisely.  Instead, I only feel the rush of air as he strides past me and into the kitchen. He pauses only momentarily in the large archway, not turning to face me, and says, in no uncertain terms, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

He continues out and into the garden, and I watch weakly through the windows as he rolls up his shirt sleeves and disappears around the bend of the flowerbed.

 

He hadn’t even waited to hear my reply, which I suppose is for the best.

 

I would have lied to him.

  
  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a drill. I am actually posting the next chapter. I am also already working on the next. No promises, but I’m hoping it will be up much sooner than this one. This was a real challenge to write (and re-write) so any feedback is very welcome and wanted.

“If you look at your watch one more fucking time, I will light you on fire.” **  
**

My head snaps up from checking the time for probably the fifth time in a quarter hour. I look first to Jules who is leaning against one of the prep counters, chewing his fingernails like they owe him money. His gaze is murderous, so I glance to Mary for confirmation.

“How long?” I ask.

“He quit two days ago. He’d probably ‘light you on fire’ so that he could smoke you.”

“Piss off,” Jules mutters and switches hands.

I check my watch again and Jules makes a sound of exasperation.

“For fuck’s sake, go! Go home if you’re so anxious to get out of here!”

“It’s not that…” I trail off. But it is. I promised Jules I was good to work until closing, but the truth is that I am absolutely dying to get home. Andrew and Tilley should have gotten back from Baal an hour ago. It has been an unusually slow Saturday night, and we haven’t had a customer for 45 minutes. The down-time makes my insistence that I was too needed at work to attend the play seem even more despicable.

I glance up at the clock hanging in the kitchen just to see if we are any closer to closing. Something hard hits me in the back of the head and when I whirl around, I see the projectile rolling away across the floor. I turn to Jules.

“Did you really just pelt me with a baguette?”

“It’s a scone to the nose next if you don’t get the fuck out!”

“What the hell, Jules?” I shriek as I dodge out of the way of another flying pastry.

“Oy!” Mary yells. “These are for tomorrow!”

He reaches for another but Mary slaps it out of his hand. He turns on me. “If you need a night off Syd, ask me! I’ll give it to you, you goddamned workaholic!”

“Who says I need a day off?”

“Tilley, that’s who! Rang just before the dinner hour to see if I couldn’t spare you for the night.”

I feel cold. “Oh, god, Jules. What did you tell her?”

“Well, you were seeing to a six top so I told her you were busy. Did you really miss going to a play with that Hiddlesworth bloke in it so you could work tonight?”

“I–We need the money.” It’s not a lie, but tonight wasn’t exactly the most lucrative shift I’ve worked.

“Well, I hope the seventeen quid was worth it!” he says, as if reading my mind. “Go home, and don’t use me as your excuse for getting out of family outings again.”

I gather my purse off the hook without further argument in case Jules reverts to throwing something sharper than baked goods.

“See you tomorrow, Syd,” Mary calls after me.

When I am almost out the door, I turn back. “Don’t you want help cleaning before close?”

Another scone whizzes my direction but falls short, exploding across the floor.

“Oh, no,” Mary answers. “Julian will clean this mess up himself.”

The chorus of their argument follows me out the front door and I can hear the thickening of Mary’s northern accent all the way from the pavement. I bite back a grin at their antics.

I jog home and make it to the flat in record time. I stand just outside the door for a few moments to catch my breath, collect my thoughts, then pull out my phone, checking if Andrew might have called with updates or emergencies. My heart lurches at the sight of two missed calls, but when I see who they are from, I quickly clear the notifications. I pull out my keys and unlock the front door.

As soon as I have it open, Tilley is on me.

“Sydie!”

She rushes toward me and stops only a foot short. Her whole body is quivering with excitement and she holds her shaking hands up to me, palms out. I hook my purse on the doorknob and bump the door closed before pressing the tips of my fingers into the tips of hers. Never having been much for hugging, Tilley and I devised these finger hugs as a way of transferring pressure without over-stimulating her. The action startles me, and I have to focus on not bursting into tears. It’s been a very long time since Tilley has been moved to touch me at all, and I had not expected this sort of reaction tonight of all nights.

She stares hard at our steepled fingers, her touch vibrating in comparison to mine. “I met Tom Hiddleston tonight,” she murmurs, almost as if she were talking to our hands rather than to me.

I look around for Andrew and find him leaning against the doorway to the den. My heart is racing at her words and I implore him with my look to give me any sort of hint of how the night went. Was there a storm coming that I wasn’t prepared for? He looks tired, truly exhausted, but he slowly raises a thumb and forefinger in the OK sign. I sigh in relief.

I glance back to Tilley who is still staring fixedly at our touching fingers. It’s been some moments since she’s spoken and any guiltless sister would have responded to her by now.

“How was it?” I ask.

“It was really scary. I didn’t like how many people there were. But Andy made sure that nobody touched me. And I was very good.”

She falls silent as she focuses again on our fingers. Andrew clears his throat and I look back to him. He gestures for me to keep talking.

“How was…he?” I ask in a small voice.

She inhales deeply as a dreamy smile spreads across her face. “He was wonderful.”

She sets off, making quick laps around the kitchen. Her hands stay firmly planted to the tops of her thighs to keep them still. “He’s really polite and he smells very, very nice. He’s taller than me, did you know? I thought only Andy was taller then me. He has the most lovely voice. Did you know he sings? He sang in the play.”

Her questions don’t wait for my answers and I glance again to Andrew. He holds up a hand to me in assurance and nods as Tilley continues in her circuits around the room.

“The play! It was awful! I mean, it was good, but he was awful. He was a real bad guy. He was very mean to a lot of people, to a lot of girls. But he was nice to me. After the play, I mean. He was mean to girls in the play and nice to me after the play. He was very nice to me. He said he liked my name.”

“Did you tell him that it’s short for Matilda? Bet he would have taken the piss out of you then,” I tease. I try to keep my voice light, try to seem interested enough, when really I’m a moment away from hyperventilating.

“I did!” She laughs. “He said one of his best friends is named Mathilda and that he likes that name very much. I think he was talking about Tilda Swinton! She shortens Mathilda to ‘Tilda’ and I shorten it to ‘Tilley.’ Do you think it was her he was talking about?”

I nod. “He probably was, Goose.”

Struck by a sudden inspiration, she jogs into her room only to emerge almost immediately with her Loki figurine. “Look!” She places the toy on the table and sets to her excited laps again. Once she passes me, I walk to the table to see. Penned awkwardly across wavy plastic of the green cape is a signature only discernible by an obvious T and H.

“Wow, Tills.” My voice sounds flat and my interest is unconvincing. The whole ordeal seems surreal, and I can’t believe I wasn’t there to monitor their interaction. The longer I sit with this, the longer I think about Tom,  _my Tom_ , talking with  _my sister_  without me there to play referee, the more I can’t believe I was stubborn enough to let this happen. What had he said to her?

As if reading my train of thought, Tilley claps her hands in excitement. “You’ll never guess what else!”

I turn to rest against the edge of the dinner table, though I am really gripping it for support. “What else?”

“He told me there was a book you have to buy me.”

I am glad for my holding on to the table as I suddenly feel weak. “That–that  _I_  have to buy you?”

“Yeah! Well, not  _you_ specifically.” She makes a dismissive gesture in my direction before pressing her hands into her legs again. “He doesn’t know  _you_. It’s just a book I need.”

I look again to Andrew and he’s smiling. It isn’t a particularly reassuring gesture, more like he’s pleased to see me squirm.

“What’s the book called?” I ask when I turn back to Tilley. Her laps around the kitchen have slowed somewhat.

“It’s called  _Pneumatics of Hero of Alexandria_. Hero was one of the very first engineers; he invented an early steam powered locomotive and a vending machine for holy water! Tommy said he learned about Hero when he was reading Classics at Cambridge.”

I sputter. “T-Tommy?”

Tilley has always had a way of manipulating people’s names to suit her whims. I’m pretty sure that she is the only one that gets away with calling Andrew “Andy,” and “Sydie” has always been my moniker. Hearing her apply the same rules to Tom’s name does something queer to my heart, and I wish again that I had been there to see them interact.

“Yeah. Can you get it for me? I want to try out the thunder machine Tommy talked about.”

I take a steadying breath. “Yeah, Goose. I’ll start looking for it tomorrow once I’m off work.”

Tilley pauses, looking at her Loki figure on the table. “I really wish you would have been there tonight. Tommy would have liked you. Tommy didn’t much care for Andy, because he kept making faces that mean you don’t like someone when he looked at Andy.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, turning to Andrew. I smile briefly at Tilley’s showing off; it always chuffs me when she points out how good she’s gotten at reading emotions on people.

“Don’t think I’m his type,” Andrew says as he arches an eyebrow. I open my mouth to throw him a cheeky response.

“You are, though, Sydie,” Tilley adds before I can form the words. I can feel the blood drain from my face. She’s picked up her Loki and is heading for her room. Evidently, the storytelling portion of the night has concluded for her.

I am almost placated into thinking they had gotten through the ordeal without incident, but her off-hand statement stills me. “What makes you say that?” I ask in a cautious tone before she can close her door.

“Dunno.” She inspects the mechanism of her door latch, turning the knob so that the bronze latch pops in and out. “I just think you two would really get on.”

She closes the door on us without wishing a goodnight.

I whirl on Andrew. “What was that about?”

Andrew shrugs and walks to where his messenger bag is hanging on the peg. “Search me.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” I say when I see that he’s looking to make an exit as well. “Did he say something to her?”

“For fuck’s sake, Syd, no.” He rolls his eyes at me, his tone gruff.  “No, he didn’t, though I couldn’t really care less if he did. Doesn’t all this cloak and dagger stuff just exhaust you?” He motions to Tilley’s closed door. “Are you enjoying lying to her?”

I feel as if he had slapped me, for the sting that his words deliver.

“What?” I stare at him as I try to reason out his meaning. Why would I enjoy any of this? “Of course not.”

“Well, I don’t enjoy it either.” He hitches the bag higher on his shoulder. “I won’t be covering for you again.”

“You said that already.” My words sound petulant, but I can’t be made to care. As if I were keen on any of this!

“Yeah, well, I meant it. I mean it even more now. I don’t know what Tilley was going on about, about you ‘being his type,’ but I’m not going to sit here and spin more drama with you. It’s nauseating.”

“Can I at least ask how it went?” My voice sounds small. I didn’t expect Andrew to be happy about any of this, but I also hadn’t anticipated his flagrant disappointment in me and my actions.

“Fine enough. Play was good. Tom’s really in his element up there.” His face softens just a bit, as if he were sorry for being so harsh. “Wish you would have seen it.”

I nod, though I refuse to give these comments any real thought. “And after?”

He gifts me a small smile. “He was a perfect gentleman. He didn’t play her in his favor or try anything. She about talked his ear off–you know how she is when she gets to asking questions. That’s how the engineering thing came up.” His smile broadens at the memory. “I do think he purposefully got to her last, so he could give her his undivided attention. He was looking for her, in fact, as it took a long time for everyone to file away.” He pauses and nervously adjusts his bag on his shoulder. “He wasn’t happy to see me.” He says this as if it were a secret, as if he knows I want to hear it, even though I shouldn’t.

“I imagine not,” I say. That is somewhat dramatic: finding joy in his being miffed that I didn’t come. It’s a feeling not wholly flattering of me or my actions thus far. I feel suddenly like a girl fishing for her lover’s jealousy–just to know she has his devotion. There were many reasons why I felt like I couldn’t go tonight. It didn’t occur to me that one of them was to test if he would mind.

“I won’t say it again, but you should have been there.”

I sigh, shoving Andrew a little. “You just said it.”

“Oops.” His lopsided grin is back and I am grateful for it.

He opens the door but pauses before leaving. He turns his tired eyes to me one last time, his smile gone, and I steel myself for more reprimands. “I’m sorry I’m so hard on you about all this,” he says instead, surprising me. “Tonight showed me how much of a celebrity he really is, and I know that can’t be easy on you…considering. I hadn’t really thought about that.”

I nod as I look away. I’m thankful for this small concession, this little notion that I might not be completely barmy in my handling of this whole thing. In all of this, it’s nice for a moment of validation, however small.

“Anyway. For what it’s worth, I like him,” he says as he darts quickly out the door.

“Duly noted,” I say as I close the door in his face.

* * *

It’s Sunday.

I am glad for one more day before I have to face Tom. It’s troublesome, both longing for and dreading the thought of seeing someone. To have one more day before I have to see him, one more day before I have to know his anger or his sadness, one more day to digest that I allowed him unrestricted access to Tilley because that was apparently better than seeing him, is a blessed relief as well as an aching disappointment.  

Jules isn’t talking to me after the baguette to the head incident, though I don’t know that he’s talking to anyone given his current state. He tries quitting smoking every six months or so, and it’s always a disaster. Being around his Royal Foulness does help to keep me from reaching for my own cigarette pack, even though I sorely want to. I’m being a model employee instead and wiping down the menus for probably the first time since this batch has been printed.

_I want you._

Uninvited, Tom’s proclamation rings suddenly in my head. His voice, broken and hard all at once, is only amplified by my efforts to muffle it. I scrub harder.

_I want you._

It’s torture, thinking of it. He gave me an exhausting list of his desires, intimate and sweet and sexy. For each of these barbs, each of these fragile professions, he had only asked one of me. ‘What do  _you_  want?’

What  _do_  I want?

I allow myself a moment as my rag stills on the menu. Just one moment to daydream, one moment I have never allowed myself before.

In my mind, I’m walking through Tom’s kitchen, barefoot. I’m wearing the button-down shirt he sent me home in that first, that only, night together. I’m just in my knickers and his shirt covers only the top-most portion of my bare legs. I turn on the kettle, still sleepy from a night spent more active than restful. I hear the mudroom door open and his trainers being kicked from his feet.

I smile as I hear him softly approach me, his walking the house barefoot a strange personal thrill of mine. Perhaps it is knowing that the world never sees him so undone as I do, that he is known for his svelte sophistication, and I enjoy him casual and relaxed. I close my eyes in anticipation of his touch.

He is behind me, fingers going immediately to trail over the tops of my thighs. Tom loves my legs, so I try to show them off at every opportunity. He smells like the garden in the morning, damp and floral. He grips one hand tightly at my hip as he brings the other to crook a finger in the collar of my–his–shirt. I moan as he tugs the collar down and plants wet kisses at the base of the back of my neck. I arch into him, and I feel his breath catch along with mine.

“Let’s go back to bed,” he whispers, his voice barely more than a growl. The heat of his breath plays along the wet left from his kisses and my skin tightens in delicious chills. “The day can wait.”

A woman laughs loudly at one of the tables, and the imagined tableau shatters.

I want him, desperately in fact–that’s simple enough. Lazy mornings in his bed, reading a few of the books that I would normally place back on his shelves when tidying, helping him the garden. Tilley in the downstairs bedroom, attaching Meccano parts to the railing of its lofted bed. But wanting him isn’t simple at all. It’s a nice dream, but how many lazy mornings would there be? He’s done with the local run of Baal. What would be next? Where would he go? Would he want me to come with him? And what of Tilley? He frightened me with talk about premiers and weekend plans. I’m not sure which is more daunting: making room in my life for another person, or that person being a celebrity?

I shake my head as I stack the clean menus. Definitely the celebrity aspect. I wouldn’t even let Tom google my name. Were I to step out with him, everyone in the country would be looking me up, and it would be only a matter of time, a matter of moments, until they found out things I don’t want flaunted.

Not to mention my job. I’d be sacked. Not just from Tom’s– _as if I could continue working for him_ –but from the agency altogether. That is something I can’t afford. The work at the diner is already a sad supplement for what I make at the agency, between rent and paying Andrew and all the other looming debts that beg my attention. Life was easier when I was cleaning for Mr Benson–he had me there Monday through Friday, and I only filled in at the diner when things were really tight. I could never rely on Jullian’s for my sole income. And picking up more classes at the community centre was laughable and not remotely lucrative.

The thought of going back to school flits briefly through my mind, but it is soon extinguished.  _With what money?_

This is why I never stop to consider what I might want from all of this, why I never daydream: because every scenario seems hopeless. The only scenario that could possibly play out in my favor would be me going to Lillian and finally requesting a transfer to a new client. Getting out of his house, and getting him out of my head, is the only way I can dream of staying afloat. It’s the only realistic option.

I should call Lillian and set up a meeting. Today. I should just do it and be finished with this entire mess. My mind reels at the thought of not seeing Tom again, of living on as if the man in all those films wasn’t the one I wanted the most. But what else can I do?

I realise I’ve been wiping the same counter for the last few minutes and go to check on the sparsely filled tables. The bells on the door chime just as I get back behind the counter. I am reciting what I might say to Lillian when I request another situation when I turn to face the customer that’s standing at the counter.

“What can I do for y–”

The words die on my lips as I look at the man in the ball cap and wayfarers. My first thought is that he’s specifically sought me out and cornered me where I can’t run. That he knew I would be here and would have to own up for my absence last night. I’m frozen in panic as I see in my mind’s eye my life crumble around my ears. Losing my agency job, and possibly this one, depending on how big a scene Tom makes. What will Tilley say?

“What are you doing here?” I hiss. One of the two remaining tables of customers begin to gather their things, leaving Tom and I even more alone. Did he follow me? How–

“What am  _I_ doing here? What are  _you_  doing here?” he asks in a rapid whisper before I can complete my thought.

“I work here!” I glance to the remaining customer. A teen with a laptop and a pair of obnoxiously large headphones. He didn’t even look up the last time I went to check on him.

Tom’s eyes begin to follow mine, but I call his attention back.

“How did you know I was here? Is this about last night?” I demand.

“I–I didn’t!” he says.

My mind won’t process his words. He’s followed me here. He’s–wasn’t it supposed to be the crazed fan that were supposed to harass the celebrities? Or… Oh god.

“Did you–oh god, Tom. I told you not to look me up. I asked you to not–”

“Syd, I didn’t!” He looks again at the oblivious teen, then back to me. “I didn’t–I didn’t know…”

He holds his hands up in an odd surrender, and I realise what an unfortunate coincidence my life has become.

Of all the places.  _Of all the bleeding places._  I had just been thanking the powers that be for a day of respite from him and those same powers have delivered him to my cafe. It would be just my luck that he decides to pop into a cafe in Islington the day after I stand him up at his play.

“Then why are you here, Tom?” I lower my voice even more, suddenly aware that Jules could walk out from the kitchen at any moment.

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” He reaches to pinch the bridge of his nose under his sunglasses. “Why the fuck–I’ve never even been down this street before. I’ve never even seen this place and…” He sighs. “You’re everywhere,” he adds, as if to himself.

 _I’m everywhere?_  He’s the bloody film star. Does he know his Jaguar commercials  _still_ air?

“I just fancied a fucking tea,” he says to no one in particular.

But his words jolt through me. For whatever reason, this makes me feel ashamed.

“Give me a moment,” I say and turn back to the kitchen.

“Syd, no.” He reaches a long arm across the counter and grabs my wrist. The contact brands my skin like fire, but I can’t meet his eyes when I turn back. Why must so many of my jobs involve making his tea?

“You make me tea enough as it is.”

He releases me and, with another glance to see that we are still without an attentive audience, he slips his Ray-Bans from his face.

 _‘I want you,’_  streaks recklessly across my mind as I finally meet his desperate eyes.

“How many jobs do you have?”

His words shatter me.

I yank my arm from his grip. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare. I have as many jobs as I need, Tom, and don’t you pity me for it.”

Anger flashes in his eyes and the fluttering muscles of his clenched jaw loosen for his next words. Just as Jules emerges from the kitchen.

More quickly than I can follow, Tom’s wayfarers are back on his face and he’s striding out the door. Gone.

Julian collapses against the counter next to me. He smells of smoke. He reaches to rub a headache from his temples and I know from personal experience that he feels simultaneously better and worse for having fallen back off the wagon.

“What the fuck was that all about?” he asks, flapping a hand to the front door. His eyes are squeezed shut against the apparent pain in his head.

“Wanted directions to the tube,” I say in what I hope is a bored tone. In reality, I am battling both panic and unfettered rage.

“Didn’t he pass the station when he walked in?”

I smile tightly and move to finally place the clean menus back where they belong. “Suppose he overlooked it.”

“Suppose he’s a prat.”

I don’t argue.

* * *

Julian is much more agreeable for the remainder of the day. It twinges in my chest to know why, to see him skulk off to the back alley to smoke. I think I might just throw out my cigarette pouch altogether instead of carrying it around in my purse. I always say I continue to carry it with me to constantly provide that temptation, to test my willpower. But that’s utter tosh, really, and I know that I carry the thing around so, if I feel so inclined, I might be able to smoke.

I think of my day, of seeing Tom at the counter, and of my evening that will surely be filled with Tilley retelling her meeting of Tom Hiddleston again. I decide that I am not quite ready to chuck the pouch.

Jules raises defeated eyebrows at me as he waves his cigarette pack in question. I’m not ready to throw out my pouch altogether, but I’m not quite back to the point of sad-smoking in the alley, either. Sad-smoking at the sink? Possibly.

“No, I think I’ll just make for home.”

He regards me with a slight purse to his lips before tossing the pack into the bin. “Suppose I’ll give it another go tomorrow.”

I smile at him and decide that, no matter how difficult tonight proves, I won’t open the window over the sink. “Good on you, Jules.”

He smiles back. “Well, get on, then. But don’t be a stranger. I still expect you to come by and see us.”

I squint at him. “What?”

He squints back. “What?”

“What’s this, ‘Don’t be a stranger.’ business?”

He looks even more confused than I expect I do. “Didn’t Lillian–?”

My heart lurches in my chest. “‘Didn’t Lillian’ what?”

Jules glances longingly at the pack of fags in the bin before turning back to me. “You better check your phone, love.”

I’m already digging it out of my bag. The screen flashes with five missed calls, all from Lillian. There is an alert for a new voicemail. My mouth feels suddenly dry. The first call came not minutes after Tom would have left the cafe. A coincidence, surely.

I dial into my voicemail, avoiding making eye contact with Jules. I turn the volume down on the message, as well, though Lillian would never mention anything untoward in a voicemail.

_“Sydney, this is Lillian. Please call me back as soon as you can. I will need you to come into my office tomorrow morning before you start your day with Mr H. It is very important that I speak with you as soon as possible, as this concerns both your future with our clients and your adherence to policy. You may call my personal mobile number to reach me.”_

I play the message a second time, but it sounds no less damning on after a repeat listen. Jules has walked over to the bin and is toying with the lip of it, probably considering fishing his fags out. He throws a worried look at me when I hang up.

“All right, love?”

I feel sick.  _Your future with our clients and your adherence to policy._

“I…” I focus on breathing, though my heart feels like it will soon thunder out of my chest. Had Tom called her? Had he told her what has happened between us? Have I been sacked?

Jules touches my arm. Concern creases his face. “Love? All right?”

“I… I don’t know.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long. My wife and I have been going through some pretty serious Real Life stuff, and this story took a back seat to that. But I'm back now and I'm already working on the next chapter. I hope you're still out there! Let me know what you think, loves!

Six thousand, three hundred, and ninety four pounds. **  
**

I stare at the number for a few moments more before turning off the screen of my phone. Six thousand, three hundred, and ninety four pounds.

One month. If we do nothing but breathe air and drink tea, we could make it one month with my entire bank account balance. If I manage to get on the dole quickly, maybe a little longer. I turn my phone’s display on again, but the number hasn’t gotten any larger.

I tap the phone on the table, willing Andrew to walk through the door. He agreed to come in early so that I could make my slow way to Brixton to Lillian’s offices. I hadn’t slept but snatches the night before, being so worried about the meeting. After a perfunctory call to set up an excruciatingly early meeting time, Lillian had simply hung up the phone. No hint as to what the meeting was to be about, save what her ominous voicemail had told me.

_Your adherence to policy._

_Your future at the agency._

Six thousand, three hundred, and ninety four pounds. One month. If she sacks me, we can make it one month.

The door opens and a still bleary-eyed Andrew steps through. He’s on me as soon as the door is closed.

“What’s going on, Syd? All right?”

“I don’t–I don’t–” I shake my head, feeling suddenly like I might cry.

“What’s Lillian want?” He searches my face for clues, and my fear must be evident. “Is it about–”

“I don’t know,” I say with another shake of my head. “I honestly don’t. I’d play you the message, but I deleted it. It was driving me mad.”

He stepped back further, his hands braced on my arms. It feels good, it feel so good to have him back on my team. “What happened?”

I let out a long breath. “Tom came to the cafe.”

“He–how did he know? Did he–” He stops suddenly, his eyes darting to Tilley’s closed bedroom door. “Did he Google you?”

“I don’t think so,” I answer softly. “He said he didn’t. I want to believe him, but in what world does Tom Hiddleston just happen to walk into my cafe when he’s never even been there before?”

A corner of Andrew’s mouth twitches, but he has the sense to bite back the smile. “Probably the same world where you turn out to be Tom Hiddleston’s maid the morning after you sleep with him.”  

I swat at his arm but nod in sullen agreement. “I’ve got to go. Got to see if I still have my job.”

“Do you think Lillian would–”

“Oh, without question. Her first call came not minutes after Tom left. I don’t know what he told her, but I can’t imagine it will end favorably for me.”

Andrew hugs me, a strange gesture between us. Out of habit, we usually just settle for the Tilley-approved finger hugs. I am glad for the extra dose of comfort, however. I’m glad for his support, finally, after all this. I only wish I had from the start.

* * *

The receptionist at Lillian’s offices sends me directly back before I’ve made it completely in the building.

“She’s waiting for you, miss.”

I rush down the hall even though I’m a few minutes early for our meeting. I clutch my purse to my chest, as if it would bolster me from the coming onslaught. Perhaps I’ll take Tilley to the the Eye once I’m done here. Give myself something to look forward to, something enjoyable for her. One last day of happy before the absolute agony of job hunting begins.

I walk into Lillian’s office and rap softly on the door frame.

“Sit,” she says without looking up from her computer screen. “Would you like anything? Water? Tea?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good.” She snaps her laptop closed and stands. She walks briskly around me to her office door and closes it sharply.

I glance around her office, detachedly thinking that she would quite like Tom’s original stylist. All stark whites with no splashes of color, save the vase of roses in the window that she has somehow managed to procure in beige. Where the woman finds beige roses, I couldn’t guess.

“I received a very upsetting phone call yesterday, Sydney.” She walks slowly around me before settling in her uncomfortable looking office chair.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I thought that I was clear when I hired you as to what I expect from my employees. What sort of behavior, what sort of interactions with the clients I consider…appropriate.”  

“You were, ma’am.” I stifle a cringe; I hate what she brings out in me. This monosyllabic acquiescence. Why this pip of a woman cows me into a sniveling mess, I can’t guess. But I fucking hate it.

“I don’t believe I was. If I had been clear, then I do not think that I would have received a phone call from Leonard Slattery.”

My pounding heart stutters in my chest. “Wh–who?”

Her pursed lips cinch tighter, like the taut opening of a miser’s change purse. “Leonard Slattery. The executor of Mr Benson’s final will and testament.”

“Mr… Mr Benson?” My mind races at the thought. “My Mr Benson?”

Her nostrils flare. “Yes.  _Your_  Mr Benson.”

Not Tom. Mr Benson. Mr Benson’s will and…

Air feels like a heavy thing, knotted into a hard tangle in my throat, making my words difficult with its slow unraveling. “Is Mr Benson… Has he–?”

Her expression loses the barest fraction of severity as she realises. “Yes. He has. Two nights ago.” A moment passes before she continues. “I’m sorry for your…for the loss.”  

A tear escapes, and I dash it quickly from my face. Lovely old Mr Benson. I worked for him for five years, and I had so enjoyed his company. Sweet and kind, he had also enjoyed mine. I spent most of my time keeping up his over-large estate, though I would often end my week with him in his most favoured library. He, too, had a soft spot for my tea, and we would share a pot as we chatted. He would update me on his granddaughters, of which there were seven, and I would regale him about the latest mischief Tilley had built. They were pleasant, our talks. With no agenda, and no small amount of comfort, they were a nice close to my weeks with him.

I was sorely disappointed when I learned he was moving to live with his oldest daughter. I had grown so accustomed to our quiet cohabitation of that massive manor five days a week. His gentle companionship was one I hadn’t found in another client.

“Sydney?”

Not realising that I had been sitting in silence for some moments, I shake my head and look up at Lillian. “Yes, ma’am.”

“May I continue or do you need a moment?”

Her question holds no warmth, and I feel a spike of anger pierce my sadness.

“No, ma’am.” I swipe away a final tear. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not being cold, Sydney, dear.” Her voice quavers on the last word, as if comforting another person were a foreign concept. “But this is exactly what I am referring to. This inappropriate…fondness for clients.”

I feel my face heat at her words.

“I was not happy to hear from Mr Slattery, but seeing your reaction to the news of Mr Benson, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

I chew on my lip to keep my thoughts just that–thoughts. Calling Lillian a callous bitch out loud would probably not help my case at the moment.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Don’t you?” Her pristine eyebrows raise in mock surprise. “His will and testament, Sydney. Apparently, Mr Benson has bequeathed you something.”

I regret not accepting her previous offer of water when I came in, as my throat suddenly dries in panic. I hadn’t connected the words to their meaning. I had been so nervous that the meeting was to be over my relationship with Tom, then so devastated to hear that Mr Benson had died that I… Executor of Mr Benson’s final will and testament. Oh.  _Oh._

“You look relieved, Sydney.”

Her words stun me. She’s right, I am relieved. Perhaps this has nothing to do with Tom’s surprise arrival at the diner. But the relief evaporates like so much morning dew on a sunny lawn. Lillian goes rigid, her mouth tightening to her usual dour look of scrutiny.

“Did you think this meeting was in reference to your interactions with another client? Mr Hiddleston, perhaps?”

I struggle to not answer too quickly. “No, ma’am.”

She rolls her wrist back and forth on the hard top of her desk, the links of her silver watch clinking in accusation. “He also called me yesterday. Quite the urgent matter.”

Her gaze is assessing, calculating. She watches me for a long, uncomfortable moment, her displeasure apparent.

She continues when I don’t respond. “Apparently, Mr Hiddleston will be requiring an increase in your services.” She seems to be enjoying herself. I fear to guess why. “To the tune of five days a week with weekends on call.”

I feel that heat rise again, a potent surge of emotion for so early in the morning. Five days a week at Tom’s? With weekends on call? The overtime that would entail is staggering. Is that why–?

“Is that why you called Jules? What he meant about–”

“I took the liberty of informing Julian that your schedule for the foreseeable future would be severely limited. I assumed you wouldn’t mind my presumption.” Her look is vile, like she knows something that she hopes I will name first. Like she is trying to catch me at something.

“No, ma’am. Of course not.” I sit up straighter.

She looks at me as if waiting for an explanation, but truly, I have none. I can’t fathom why he would need an increase in services, as I already search for tasks to fill my workdays at his immaculate house.

As if reading my mind, Lillian prompts, “I’m just curious why a single man in a relatively modest home would need a full-time housekeeper.”

I hold her gaze. Her intense focus goads me to rise to the bait. To defend myself. To entrap myself. It’s then that I realise.

_“How many jobs do you have?”_

Warm embarrassment floods my chest, slow and heavy. I told him not to pity me. But this, giving me more hours, more easy money, this is so much worse than pity.

“I’m surprised that you weren’t more interested in what Mr Benson bequeathed you, Sydney,” Lillian says after several long moments.

Fuck. I softly shake my head to clear my thoughts and to banish the tears that threaten to fall again.

“I–I didn’t think it proper to ask,” I answer in a small voice.

Under other circumstances, this response would likely garner some favor from Lillian, but we’ve travelled far beyond the scope of approval. She sniffs.

“Yes, well, I’m not at liberty to know, regardless. Mr Slattery is compelled to speak with you directly. He has your contact information.”

I open my mouth to respond, but Lillian surprises me by leaning forward. Her voice is low and she stabs a manicured fingernail into the desk’s leather blotter. “You are walking a fine line, Miss Martin. I pride myself in the exceptional service my employees provide our clients, but all of this reeks of indecency. I cannot express my embarrassment at learning you had been mentioned in Mr Benson’s will. What ideas did you plant in that poor man’s head? What wretched story did you weave to have him pity you so much? Your situation with your sister? Your mother?”

The hot pool of embarrassment seethes within me. “Now, hold on–!”

“And don’t think I am a fool when it comes to Mr Hiddleston.  _Tom._ ” She says his name in a putrid sing-song voice. “A very fine line, Sydney.”

Anger simmers where the tough knot in my throat used to be at her implication that I had ulterior motives in my kindness to Mr Benson. I deserved, in part at least, her suspicion of my role in Tom’s house, but to assume that my time at Mr Benson’s–

The thought is revolting.

“Yes, ma’am,” I bite out.

There is another tense moment before Lillian relaxes. How she must wish I would rise to her bait. But Lillian, as pragmatic and calculating as she is, doesn’t understand me at all. She doesn’t understand how dedicated I am to providing for Tilley, to holding back my true feelings for her benefit. What satisfactions I will deny myself.

In both telling her off…and with Tom.

“You’ll be late. I wouldn’t want you to disappoint Mr Hiddleston on your first day of full-time.” Her momentary cheek reminds me so fleetingly of her twin. The kind, though troublesome man who is a better employer than she could ever hope to be. I’m peeved at my comparison of the two.

“Yes, ma’am.”

It’s not until I’ve boarded the lurching tube carriage that I can even process all that was said.

Mr Benson is dead. The only client, other than Tom, that ever treated me as if I were human. Kind and gentle. And now he’s dead.

What on earth could he have bequeathed me in his will? Why would he leave me anything at all? I thought we were friendly enough, and I suppose five years in a person’s house is long enough to form a bond. I called to check on him from time to time, when I thought about it. Just to check in. I realise with some regret that it’s been a fair stretch since I’d thought to call his daughter’s home. Not since…not since Tom.

I flop my head back on the hard window of the carriage. Now it’s too late. How did I deserve to be left anything by him, no matter how small? Was treating a person with decency and kindness really so worthy of reward?

Doubt niggles at me. I hadn’t been inappropriate with him, had I?

My stop comes up and I exit the carriage, suddenly furious with Lillian all over again. I had never questioned my time with Mr Benson, never once thought that telling him stories about Tilley or my dance classes, or laughing over a bawdy joke Jules had told me, had been anything more than treating the kind old man like he was a person. He had been good enough to return the favour. And she had me doubting our friendship.

But I suppose that is the difference. Lillian was contented with the clients treating us as less-than. She was probably more offended that Mr Benson had been decent to me at all than by me possibly crossing any proprietary boundaries.

And now this business with Tom. What is he thinking, having me on full-time? How does he expect me to fill all that time in his already clean house that, frankly, isn’t even that large to begin with? Perhaps he’ll finally stop cleaning before I get there; that will help, surely.

Perhaps it’s some twisted payback for skipping out on the final performance of Baal. This last thought lurches my heart–I’d forgotten to be anxious about seeing him again after missing the play.

I check my watch, not quite believing that it isn’t yet eight in the morning. I feel as if the day should be almost over, when in fact, I haven’t even made it to Tom’s yet.

Full-time. The weight of this tugs at me. Starting every morning in his kitchen. Ending with tea–if we can stand to go back to that–five afternoons a week. My feeble plan to request a different situation had been entirely forgotten when I heard Lillian’s message left on my phone, and now I am committing to even more time spent in his presence.

Weekends on call. I can’t work my cafe job when I have to be on call for Tom. And barring any emergency hoovering incidents… That would mean weekends off. Weekends with Tilley. Two consecutive days of television marathons and day trips to museums. Suppers eaten at a normal hour and around the table, not alone and over the sink several hours after the flat has turned in for the night.

Did he do this on purpose? Had this been his intention, to give me back to my sister? The panic of the morning coupled with this possibility brings me to reluctant tears. I know I make quite the picture, dressed in my maid’s uniform, crying on the tube before the day has even begun, but I can’t hold them in.

_Oh, Tom._

* * *

He isn’t in the kitchen when I arrive and there is no Post-It on the tap, either. I wonder momentarily if he might not be here at all when a thump from upstairs tells me otherwise. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or set further on edge.

I set down my things and wander into the great room. I feel oddly detached as I look around the immaculate room. Though bright and spacious, it looks hardly large enough to contain all that has happened over recent days. The confrontation with Luke, Tom’s candid confession of exactly where I stand in his life, his feelings for me. My silence in the wake of his bold declaration, however, seems to take up the most space in the vaulted room. Now that I have returned, now that I am here to face what is waiting for me, it seems I will shatter the very air around me. I feel small; vulnerable.

I hadn’t guessed what I would encounter within myself, walking back in this house after these last few days of tumult. Would it be anger at Tom’s deception? At his taking the upper hand in the running of my life, and not for the first time? Would it be gratitude despite this manipulation? Joy in his simplification of my attentions? Would I wade back into wanting, into the need to feel his body against mine as I had in that afternoon downpour?

What I find, as I hear his deliberate footsteps descend the stairs from his room, is startling shyness. I straighten my clothes, mussed from travel, and debate taking my hair down. The idea strikes me as odd, and I follow my instinct though I don’t understand it. The dark coils of it tumble heavily down around my neck as he rounds the corner.

He stops short at the sight of me.

Something in his hesitation makes me want to run to him, to reassure him. But to reassure him of what, I don’t know, and I stay where I am.

I can’t describe what I feel when I look at him, his eyes filled with so much sadness and bellicose desire. It is as if I both know him completely and not at all. A beautiful stranger as well as a comforting companion.

I say his name, and it feels like the most intimate of utterances.

He stride towards me, his look wild, and I make the rashest of decisions to yield to whatever he may do. But he stops short, fists clenched.

“I’m leaving.”

I had been steeling myself for contact, for his embrace, for onslaught, be it of anger or of ardor. I had been recklessly willing to give in, whatever his tactic. His words strike me with their abruptness and I can only stammer.

“W-what?”

“For three weeks. I have to…” He rocks towards me again but doesn’t take another step. “For work. I’ll be out of the country for three weeks.”

I can’t sort out the implications. Gone? For three weeks? “But you just insisted that I come on full-time!”

He checks his watch and the brief gesture flares something angry hot in me.

“I know, I–” He looks to the front door. “I wish you got here sooner– Or–or that I didn’t have to leave so soon. There’s so much I want to…” His lips are pressed into a tight line as he looks around the room, searching for something.

“Come upstairs with me.”

My cheeks flame at the suggestion. His bedroom.

“Why?”

“I need to… Just come on.”

He takes my hand and the contact makes me dizzy. I am bewildered by all this, unsure what to feel first. Outrage? Impatience? Salacity?

Not entirely of my own accord, I stumble up the stairs after him. When we crest the stairs, I brace myself again for his turning on me, for the kiss he promised against. What I see instead is a kaleidoscope of colour in the usually white, white room.

The books in his shelves are rarely in good order, but this is utter chaos. Books turned on their sides so brightly coloured bookmarks can peek from their pages. Post-Its of all hues tacked in endless cascades on the borders of shelves. And his desk. Usually untidy, it is brimming with small stacks of books, more Post-Its and bookmarks and notes decorating their pages and spines. Piles of papers, neat but manifold. And a chair, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, marking a bright barrier between office and bedroom.

Half armchair, half chaise lounge, its sumptuous fuchsia velvet fabric radiates an almost magnetic pull to be touched, enjoyed. Resting on the arm is a happily steaming cup of tea in one of the earthen mugs I had used for tea my first morning in this house.

“What is this?” I ask, my voice not a little affected by the onslaught of stimuli.

“Your vacation.” His voice is so near my ear that his breath tickles the fine hairs on my cheek.

“My what?”

The doorbell rings downstairs and Tom curses under his breath. I turn to him and see the conflict in the creases of his forehead. “I’ll be gone three weeks, house all to yourself.”

“Yes, but–”

“I spent the last few days going over old coursework from Cambridge, my required texts and the like. That’s there on the desk–” The doorbell rings again, followed by the chirping of his mobile. He types a speedy reply before looking back to me. He motions to the shelves. “And some of my favourite books. Those are the ones with the book marks. My favourite passages are on the Post-Its. It’s all color coded.”

“I don’t understand, Tom.” My head is spinning with the frantic energy of him. “What do you want me to do with them?”

He reaches as if to touch me, then thinks better of it. “Read them. Write your own notes. Pick out your own favourites. Pull books for me, or write them down if I don’t have the ones you think I ought. I’ll buy them when I get back.”

“What?”

“Or do none of this, if that’s better for you. Spend time with Tilley. Or with that Andrew bloke, if you must.” He begins backing up towards the stairs. “I’m sorry, I have to catch my flight. Just be here when I get back, please. The 19th. Please.”

“Tom, wait!” I say before he can dash down the stairs.

He glances behind him down the stairs to his escape, but stops.

“I can’t–” I tug restlessly at my hair. “I just can’t sit in your house for three weeks and read. It’s… It’s dishonest. It’s not the kind of work I do.”

“It’s a paid vacation, Syd!” His words carry out on a laugh, all at once impatient and amused. “They aren’t unheard of!”

“Yes, but–”

“Fine.” He strides past me into the room. “Have it your way.” He clears his throat before continuing, elaborately gesturing to the clutter around him. “Miss Martin.” His voice pitches down to a register that crackles over my skin. His gaze finds mine and decisively pins me to the spot, deep and attuned. “Please gets this room in order before my return. I will be back to on the 19th and will evaluate your performance at that time.”

He smirks at me, thoroughly pleased with himself. It is only then that I realise the switch within him, that subtle shift to calculation, to the barest of performances. When I don’t reply, he softens again from actor to man. “Please.” His voice is no less arresting in its earnest turn. “Just… I can’t do much for you, Sydney, not at the moment, but let me do this.”

A car horn honks outside and his phone begins chirping again.

He look lingers still on me, potent regret written on his features as his hand absently turns his mobile over and over in his palm. A rattling breath quakes from me.

And I nod, though I don’t know if I mean it.

He smiles brilliantly and reaches a hand toward me. It falters in its path to me as he decides where is safest to touch. He settles on my hair, softly scrunching a handful in his fist. He presses his clenched hand against my cheek, a soft stroke of his thumb tracing the thin crescent of skin beneath my lower lashes. The look in his eyes is unfathomable.

Then he releases me and is down the stairs before I can say a word.


End file.
